


Love Is Gold

by cave_leporem



Category: Motorcycling RPF
Genre: Everything is Beautiful and Nothing Hurts, Fluffier than a charred marshmallow, Go Team Spain!, M/M, Olympics AU, Team Bonding, This started as 5000 words of fluff, and became 20000 of gymnastics pr0n, maybe crack?, minor language, re: title- I couldn't resist.
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-08-22
Updated: 2016-08-22
Packaged: 2018-08-10 06:49:14
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 22,002
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7834480
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cave_leporem/pseuds/cave_leporem
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Rio, 2016. </p>
<p>Dani is the team leader of a young but world-class group of artistic gymnasts. No Spanish gymnast has ever won an Olympic gold medal, and he desperately wants to change that.</p>
<p>(His role as team leader involves nothing more than herding cats, and his team are a bunch of little shits anyway.)</p>
<p>Jorge is the men's triathlon defending Olympic champion.</p>
<p>(And he is a magnificent bastard, among many other things.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	Love Is Gold

**Author's Note:**

> OMFG I got it finished in time! I have not written so much in so little time... ever, I think?? I can't even remember what sparked this. 
> 
> Disclaimer: yeah, I wish.
> 
> There are deliberate inaccuracies (regarding Olympic procedure and FIG processes) within the fic that I've written in because I liked a particular scene or phrase- eg, men's floor routines aren't actually performed to music, only women's. I researched what I could and made up what I couldn't find, so a willing suspension of disbelief is required for reading.
> 
> The most major, deliberate suspensions of reality are how much looser I make the organisation side of things- eg., no formal order of gymnasts to compete on every apparatus needs to be given; the teams can decide up to a minute before. Also, their routines are not set in stone- they will earn more points if they sneak in an extra move in a split second decision.
> 
> Then again. AU fic of actual people. Suspension of disbelief practically a given.
> 
> Goddamn, I am going to hell.
> 
> Enjoi (and I'll see you there.)

29/07/16- Friday.

Dani checked the key number, then the door. It was definitely them. With a grin, he shifted his personal bag to the other arm and waved Jorge in front. “Ladies first.”                                                                            

Jorge snorted. “Cute.” He threw the door open and immediately claimed the bed by the window.                                                                               

The gymnast didn’t protest; it really wasn’t worth it. The triathlete grinned, stretched all four limbs to all four corners of the bed, then flopped onto his side and smouldered.                                                              

“But sweetie, you said you booked the honeymoon suite!”                                    

Dani kept a straight face for, oh, two seconds. Jorge’s laughter joined his in short order.

 

31/07/16- Sunday. 

It was with annoyance that Dani heard footsteps not five minutes after he’d finally scored some alone time to train. Nonetheless, he shut the errant feeling down and completed his run up, throwing himself into a round-off and following through into his full twist-walkout/double somersault piked combination that would hopefully be the third tumble chain in his floor routine.          

Only when he’d secured the landing did he turn (with a sweeping step back, because why not practise the little things too?) to eye whichever team mate had snuck back to interrupt his solitude. 

He felt his face slacken in surprise, because-                                   

“Jorge? What are you doing here?”            

None of the training areas were exclusive. Cross-training, in fact, was highly encouraged in many sports, but for the life of him Dani could not imagine why a triathlete would be looking at any of the gymnastics apparatus as viable exercise.

To be fair, Jorge looked equally surprised. Then annoyed, with a shade of frustration.

“What?” Dani snapped, tired of the silence when Jorge had interrupted him.

"Why don’t you land it like that every time? That was _perfect_.”

“I’m going to pretend,” Dani started, once that had sunken in, “That you’ve had a brain-fail, and temporarily forgot how stupid a question that is. Secondly, thanks. I think.” He squinted at the taller man. “Was that sarcasm?”

Jorge shrugged one shoulder and ducked his head. “No, actually. That looked amazing,” he mumbled at the floor.

Dani couldn’t afford to touch that with a barge pole. “Why are you here?” He asked again instead, because solo training. He really wanted to get back to it.

"I wondered if-" Jorge began, only for both of them to look up at further footsteps. Dani silently bemoaned the loss of easy, open body language and friendly compliments for the utter _bastard_ that took pride of place whenever somebody else happened across them together.

He didn’t know why Jorge did this; it was like the man was _ashamed_ of their friendship. Considering the torch Dani had been carrying for him, on and off for four years (since their first Olympics together in London), it- hurt, slightly, to think that was the case.

"Hey Dani,” Marc tossed out breezily as he made straight for the benches they normally stored their kit under. “Did you see my tape- oh. Hi. Er,” he stumbled over his words like he never did his feet, perhaps sensing the icy tension pervading the room. “You know what, I’ll find it later, leave you to it.”

The younger gymnast fled.                       

Dani stared, transfixed as every visible muscle in Jorge’s body unwound from DefCon Three. “What even is that?” He waved a hand at the man, hoping he got the question.

“What’s what?” Jorge sounded clueless. But there was something shifty in his stance.

“That thing you do!” Dani said more forcibly. “You freeze whenever somebody sees us together. Look, I know London started off on the wrong foot, but we’re over that, surely? You aren’t still pissed off about it?”

Carefully, deliberately, Jorge shifted his weight from one foot to the other. “We agreed to disagree, and water under the bridge and all that. What thing?” Then he shook his head, and carried on. “You know what? Never mind.” With that, he spun on his heel and retreated after Marc.

Dani’s jaw dropped as he watched the Majorcan go. “Right,” he bit out, stomping over to the vault. It was the best thing to throw himself into; he could pound the springboard with his feet and thump the apparatus as he pushed off.

(Not to mention, there was still hope that he could score three for three in medals in three consecutive Olympics. He had a silver from Beijing and a bronze from London, both on vault, and honestly, any colour any _where_ would validate his entire life once more. He was, however, banking on his historical best to bring it.)

Three runs later, Dani yelled in frustration as he staggered sideways on the landing _again_. But he felt better for the practice, the anger bleeding away bit by bit. He checked the springboard on the way back for positioning, and with sudden inspiration dragged out the mat used by gymnasts to land hands on when going for a round off entry.

Could he try it again? Round-off, back handspring (half twist) onto the horse, straight somersault with three twists off. Difficulty score of 6.6 under the latest version of FIG codes.

It used to be his party piece, but Dani hadn’t competed with that vault in _years_. Puig would kill him if he found out Dani attempted it unspotted; considering his history with the move, it was allowed in training only under strict rules.

Thing was, Dani had one gold medal on his wall, from the World Championships of 2006. It was earned by that vault. He had no Olympic golds.

When he tried for a consecutive win in 2007, he broke his ankle on the landing. On live television.

Fast forward the recovery to Beijing, and he managed it. Got a silver, even.

Then there was 2009; he’d changed to an Arabian double half-out somersault for something new- and broke the same ankle in exactly the same way; a mistimed landing in front of thousands of spectators and more behind the camera lens.

Flick through another recovery period, this one lasting _two years_ , and there was build up to London 2012. He managed the Arabian double that time with a small step to the left, for bronze.

2013 was the last time he used a round-off entry in competition. It was the third time he broke an ankle, small mercies being that at least that time it was the other one.                                                               

Since then, Puig’d been stricter with him in training than a recovering alcoholic organising a piss-up in a brewery. Dani was mostly grateful; although he’d managed it in said training any number of times, he’d not yet been able to get over the mental stumbling block that was live competition + round off = broken ankle.                                 

But today…                                          

He checked positions once more, then lined up with his marker at the start of the run. He breathed slowly in, out, in, out.

Then it was muscle memory and instinct telling him what and when to pitch, how much to lash out at the vault and push himself up, up, needing the height to get in the twists before coming over for the unsighted landing.

The infamous landing. That time, in practice, he made it. He flexed his knees, and he _stuck_ it. Nary a hop, skip or jump in any direction, so Dani turned and presented to an imaginary panel, adrenalin in his blood and ringing in his ears.

Holy God, Alberto was going to kill him. Then possibly cry tears of joy that Dani might, might be willing (able) to compete with it again, because the only thing that ever stopped him was his mind. If Dani spent an hour a day training and thumping this vault in religiously, with that goal left, right and centre on the brain, Puig wouldn’t gainsay him.

What was fear, anger or frustration to such _exhilaration_ on landing it?

There was a quiet cough back at the entrance. High on endorphins, Dani swung round this time with an easy smile, expecting Marc back, or one of the others on the team.

Jorge smiled sheepishly.            

Stupid endorphins; Dani would _love_ to be annoyed right now. “No, Jorge,” he huffed a laugh, “I haven’t seen your tape anywhere.”

“I never tire of watching the gymnastics,” Jorge said, non-sequitur enough to make the gymnast blink at him. “Even the practice. I don’t remember that one from you, though. New?”

“Old,” Dani corrected him, “Last time I used it in competition was… 2013? When I broke my right ankle.” He couldn’t stop the instinctive flinch at the memory. “… _Reason_ I broke my right ankle. But I tried something different in London, anyway, and-” And the implications of Jorge’s question were fully parsed by his hormone-high brain. “-wait, you watch the gymnastics?”

Jorge watched gymnastics competitions? Often enough to recognise particular vaults?

Huh.                                               

In the interests of personal honesty (though Jorge would learn it on pain of death), Dani reminded himself that his TiVo box was filled with specific triathlons from the last six months, most of them watched at least once.

Was there… could there be… a correlation there?

“Every time you’re on,” Jorge confirmed with a nod. “The team, I mean,” he added hastily, and Dani wasn’t sure if the haste was because of whatever look he might not have wiped off his face in time.

He hoped there was no look.

“I ask again,” he said with a wan grin, “Why are you here, Jorge?”

“Yeah,” Jorge hedged, “About that. I’m scouting the triathlon course tomorrow and wondered if you wanted to come with for company?”

“Jog or bike?” Dani wondered immediately. The answer probably wouldn’t affect his reply, no matter what Jorge thought. Though Dani wouldn’t be tagging along for the whole course at a jog.

“If you’re coming, bike. Definitely.” With a charming wink, Jorge sealed the gymnast’s fate.

Stupid endorphins; Dani gave in with bad grace. “Looks like I’m doing a bit of sightseeing tomorrow, then.”

"Don’t forget your camera,” Jorge reminded him. “I want all the recon I can get.”

“And what am I getting out of this?” Dani fired back. “If I’m helping your course notes, what do I get in return?”

"Well,” Jorge drawled, pretending to think about it. “Alcohol’s contraband ‘til our events are over. How about I give you a proper workout for once, as part of your training?”

Dani felt his eyes widen, and forced with every fibre of willpower his muscles not to freeze, to stay exercise-loose and flowing.

(Apart from one in particular: he glued his tongue to the roof of his mouth to stop his immediate answer of ‘yes, _please_ ’ bursting out.)

“Sounds good,” he eventually managed around a dry swallow.

“Great!” Piece said at last, Jorge turned to leave and _flounced_ towards the exit. Whose sport was the one with points awarded for execution, here? “I’ll wake you up at six!”

He far enough away to pretend Dani’s “Say fucking what now?”, yelled at his back, didn’t reach him.

-*-

 

01/08/16- Sunday.

“Rise and shine, sleeping beauty!”

Dani opened his eyes blearily, and took in the numbers on his clock. 0547. “Die, Lorenzo,” was his succinct response.

“This is your courtesy wakey-wakey call. I am not sorry to tell you, but the snooze button is a non-function of this particular alarm.”

"Fuck. Off.” Dani pulled the covers over his head, trying to drown out the noise. He was moderately successful, until Jorge stole his pillow.

“So help me God,” Dani muttered, dragging the quilt down to pin one bleary eye on the Majorcan. “If you hit me with that, I will end you.”

“I brought you coffee,” Jorge said blandly, pointing at his bedside table.

Dani followed the gesture with his gaze, and took his sweet time focussing on the red and yellow mug. Delicate swirls of steam rose from the surface.

“I love you,” Dani declared.

With a bitten off chuckle, Jorge folded his arms. “Scarily, I would not put it past you to be addressing the mug.”

Three sips later, Dani raised an eyebrow at him. “Why was there any doubt in your mind that I was addressing the elixir of life?”

(A white lie. But this early in the morning, he figured Jorge wouldn't pick up on it.)

In response, Jorge chucked a towel at him. “You got fifteen to get sorted, Pedrosa, then I want you in the canteen.”

Dani flicked him a one-finger salute. “Sir, yes sir.”

Jorge blew him a kiss.

-*-

They used shuttles to get to what would be the exit gate from the transition zone. With a groan, Dani noticed that the sun was barely halfway into the sky. Despite the early hour, Copacabana Beach was already busy.

“I suppose,” Dani mused, looking into the waves that would host the first stage of Jorge’s event, “I should be grateful you aren’t forcing me to swim.”

“Thought it might be too much for your pansy-sport arse,” Jorge quipped lightly.

“I can handle more than you think,” Dani protested immediately, but firmly, implications racing in his mind. 

Damn him, Jorge looked amused. “Really?” He glanced sideways at the smaller man. “Like what?”                                                                                    

Now Dani felt his face grow hot. “Like a 42km trek, for one.” He mounted his bike and waited for Jorge to catch up.                                                    

“Okay,” Jorge laughed a little. “You probably haven’t seen the climb, yet.” The triathlete mounted his own bike smoothly, still with that sideways look. “Anything _else_ you’d care to mention?” He asked nonchalantly.                                                                

Were they flirting? Was that what this was?                                                             

“I’ll let you know,” Dani barely dared to breathe as he said it.                                                                              

They eyed each other carefully, looking underneath the words to see if they were reading the same subtext.                                                         

Then Jorge straightened with a grin. “Alright, champ,” he said in his best ‘drill sergeant’ impression. “We’ll start with two loops and see how you’re hanging on after that.”                                                                              

Dani’s competitive side reared its head. “Catch me if you can, Lorenzo.” 

-*- 

They weren’t actually going flat out along the track- Jorge was calling them to stop every five or so minutes so he could examine the camber, or the gutters, or even the trees- 

“Really, Jorge? The trees?”                                       

“Do I tell you how to land a dismount?”                                     

“Actually-”                                     

“That was a landing, not a dismount; it doesn’t count.”                                      

(Jorge knowing the difference had given Dani pause for a moment. And a warm glow. He was blaming the exertion for the flush on his cheeks.)                       

“Okay, I’ll bite. Why the trees?” 

“Checking the leaf level, and likelihood of them shedding on the road. They can slide under a wheel during the race.”                                                                            

“Learn something new every day, I guess.”                             

-and Dani was calling a stop every time they passed a picturesque scene. Considering that they were riding along the beach front at the time- 

“So I’ll go ahead, ride the last five loops, and meet you back here while you take your happy snaps, okay?”                                       

“Shut up, stand over there and smile.”                                        

“ _Excuse_ me?”                                                                                        

-That photo was _priceless_.                                                        

After a couple of hours, Jorge magnanimously decided to call lunch. Sweaty, exhausted and starving, Dani could only nod in agreement. They meandered over to one of the benches facing the much admired sands, and sat down gratefully.                                                            

“To be honest,” Jorge admitted, as they pulled out their team-approved, calorie-counted packs, “You’ve held up better than I thought you would.”       

Dani took it in the spirit it was meant, rather than the way it came out. Something the triathlete had given him plenty of practice at. “I think that last kilometre just did me in.” Six loops. Six murderous climbs. 

Sometimes, just sometimes, Dani let himself admire the fitness of a triathlete.                                                             

“Rather than the previous twenty nine?”                                                      

Dani chucked his empty water bottle at him.                                                                         

-*-                                                   

Restored, they chose to cycle back to the athletes’ village, rather than subject the Brazilian public on the shuttles to their dishevelled, exerted selves.

"Shower, then Jacuzzi?” It was more of a statement of intent, than a question.                                   

“Shower, team check, then Jacuzzi,” Dani amended. “God only knows what they’ve got up to in my absence.”                                            

There was a wince, subtle enough that Dani could charitably ignore it. “So I’ll see you in a couple of hours.”                                                 

“Come on, they’re not that bad!” Dani nudged him. “It won’t take that long.”                                                  

“That depends,” Jorge said darkly, “On how much money you have to scrounge up for bail.” 

-*- 

“Hey, look who’s back!” Pol cried, as Dani hit the place he felt most likely to hold his young team mates: the gaming room. 

Alex immediately picked up the baton. “Did ya have a nice date?”                                     

“Yes, thanks,” Dani said innocently.                                                                             

The four young men fell silent. The team leader smiled at them, giving nothing away.                                                  

He hoped. 

“So,” Marc swallowed hesitantly, “It _was_ a date?”                                      

“Ha! Pay up, bitches!” 

“ _Damn it_ , Pol!”                                         

Dani rolled his eyes, letting the façade fall. “It wasn’t a date. We’re _friends_.”                                                                          

“Besides,” Maverick spoke up, “We’re winding up for an Olympics. Any dating would be put on hold until after our events.” He eyed the eldest gymnast slyly. “Plenty of time in that shared room of yours to celebrate the Closing Ceremony properly.”                                                                   

The team leader glared at the newest member. “You’re no longer my favourite, Vinales.”                                              

“I thought I was your favourite,” Marc muttered mutinously.                                                                                        

“You got demoted for _asking if it was a date_ ,” Dani replied sourly. “Anything exciting happen while I was out?” 

“I inflicted total pwnage on their noob fingers,” Alex said proudly.                                                                                

Dani turned to Marc. “In dictionary language?” He figured Marc would be the best translator.                                                                                         

“He impressed ownage on our lifes,” Marc re-iterated, but Dani was still uncertain on what they were talking about. Heinous grammar clues or not.     

“He thrashed us,” Pol summarised succinctly, “At playstation FIFA.”                                                                      

That wasn’t unusual enough to warrant a mention, never mind a lurid commentary, so Dani stared at the last man to offer a translation.                 

“There was FIFA,” Maverick elucidated. “Then there was GTA. Then Halo. Then Super Smash Bros. Alex won them all.”                  

Dani took a moment to analyse that, then offered his conclusion. “Pathetic.” He scoffed at the offended looks his fellow gymnasts shot him. “C’mon, football followed by larceny, shooting and psychedelia? And you’re telling me Alex won them all?” He narrowed in on the young man.                                      

(Anything to divert the attention from himself.)                                                                                                    

“If only gaming were an all-round event, right? I have an appointment or I’d school you properly. As it stands, I’ll see you later.” He winked at the younger man.

“And you aren’t even telling me to train my body as well as my fingers. You, Dani Pedrosa, are the coolest team leader I’ve ever suffered.” 

Dani took the distraction gracefully (gratefully). “Remember that when you have the option to snipe me in the next Halo competition.”

 

03/08/16- Wednesday.                                                                                       

Dani pulled up halfway through his practice run when the music started. He waved Pol over to take his place at the vault and yanked Alex away from the pommel. 

“Is Marc-” He paused, blinked as the older Marquez’s tumbling routine started, “Is he actually going to perform his floor routine to Kei$ha?”              

Alex looked unperturbed. “You should have seen him at the youth Worlds, I think it was five years ago? He made a medley of Mulan’s ‘Man Out of You’ and performed on floor to it.” 

Dani rolled that around in his mind. Nope, still didn’t make sense. He doubled checked. “Disney’s Mulan?”                                                  

The younger Cerveran let his grin break free. “The very same.”                                                                        

“Don’t let him fool you,” Marc panted from behind, routine finished. “He’s the one that had a competition routine to the Rocky theme tune.” 

From the horror on Alex’s face, it had to be true. Dani chuckled. “ _It’s the thrill of the fight_? Really?” 

Sheepishly, Alex nodded. “You know those things that seem like a good idea when you’re fourteen and winding up to a youth Olympics?” 

“That’s not an excuse, and you know it. Speaking of,” Dani turned back to Marc, incredulity back in full force. “Timber?” 

Marc shrugged. “ _It’s going down_ ,” He sang, half on key, all out of rhythm. “It seemed appropriate.”                                                           

Dani gave up. He despaired; he washed his hands of the pair of them. “Alberto!” he yelled across the gym, “Can I kick the Marquezes out of team Spain for undeniably dubious tastes in music?” 

“2008,” Dani’s personal coach replied immediately. Dani blanched. 

“Never mind!”                                                                                                                                  

“2008?” Alex wondered aloud, but Marc was scratching at the back of his head, trying to remember.                                                                            

“ _That- that- that that don’t kill me… Can only make me stronger_!” 

Dani wasn’t one hundred percent sure who’d resurrected that particular ghost, but he wished it had stayed dead. He buried his head in his hands. “In my defence,” he protested, “I’d just come back from breaking my ankle. The first time.”                                                            

“Kanye West,” Marc enunciated solemnly, “Is not something the best criminal defence lawyer in the _world_ could make a case for.”            

The vault specialist grimaced, but, well… “When you’re right, you’re right.”

                                                                 

05/08/16- Friday. 

For the first time, Dani was actually woken up by his alarm clock rather than his roommate. He came to with a start, having forgotten just how bloody annoying the thing was. 

On the next bed over, Jorge groaned and pulled the covers up over his head. 

Fully awake with glee, Dani hit the appropriate button.                                                               

The alarm went off again, _louder_. 

With a muffled shout, Jorge threw off the covers and sat up.                                            

Jorge slept shirtless. Dani’d shared a room with the man for a _week_ , and managed to destroy his sanity with this knowledge the day before his games started.

Fuck it all. 

He metaphorically picked his jaw up off of his quilt, and rustled up a credible smirk. “Did you get drunk the night before the opening ceremony? I know you’re only here for one day, but really Jorge-”                                                                 

“No alcohol was involved,” the Majorcan replied gruffly. “This is a lime and elderflower cordial headache. Also, kill the singing cat and let me sleep some more.”

“After 0547 four days ago? Not on your life,” Dani replied sweetly.                                                   

Jorge narrowed his eyes. “I was up until three in the morning playing I Have Never with the triathlete crowd. With lime and elderflower cordial, which is three parts sugar to one part water, and not a flavour to be seen. I’ve had maybe two hours of sleep so please, Dani, be a star and let me sleep some more? _Please_?” 

“I could get used to you begging,” Dani admitted without any permission, or apparent input, from his brain.                                                    

Far from narrowed, Jorge’s eyes went in the opposite direction, showing _very_ wide.                                      

“Sleep!” Dani attempted to recover. “I’ll let you get back to it.” He silenced the clock, grabbed the first clean clothes he saw, and fled for the shower. 

-*- 

“Dani,” Pol asked hesitantly, halfway through their warm up, when the Sabadell-born gymnast had tripped over his workout trouser hems six times, “Are you wearing Lorenzo’s trousers?”                                    

Dani blinked and looked down, examining the fabric death traps closely. “Huh. That explains it.”                                                        

He bent down and rolled up the hems. To keep them raised, he kept going until the fabric bunched up securely above his calves. Just to be sure, he tightened the drawstring at the waist, but apparently his hips were wider than Jorge’s anyway, because it was giving him no issues. 

(That was another piece of information he’d be saner for having not worked out.) 

He straightened up, and pointedly ignored the rest of the team’s incredulous stares and implied questions for the rest of the morning. 

-*- 

At lunch, he stalked up to their room and double checked the next pair of trousers he picked up off of the floor (he and Jorge had a system; neither were particularly tidy, but dirty clothes definitely went in the hamper. Unworn clothes remained in the suitcase. In between- not dirty enough to wash, but worn at least once- were fair game as far as placement was concerned. They hadn’t bothered with a ‘my side, your side’ thing.) and efficiently stripped off.

Because the world hated him, that was when Jorge walked in. Dani sighed, but gamely threw the trousers back at their owner. “Figured you’d want those back.”

With the air of one greatly perturbed, Jorge picked the garment up between thumb and forefinger of his right hand. “You could have given them back after washing them. Or, I’m really not that attached. Keep them.” He chucked them back.                                                                      

Dani caught them before they hit his head, and pitched them into the hamper. “Thanks, but if I have to suffer another morning of my team of little shits glancing at each other and coming up with silent theories that speak volumes for how much they aren’t saying, I’ll kill them. Or, if I trip over the hem once more during warm up,” Jorge suppressed a smirk, but not quickly enough, “I’ll go homicidal-suicidal on them.” 

“How long did it take you to realise?” Jorge asked idly, as Dani pulled up and tied off his own trousers.                                                                  

"Four staggers and two face plants. I figured I'd missed my morning coffee." 

“Call it six, Pedrosa, and take the mocking like a man.” 

“Only if you’re man enough to give it,” Dani fired back, hands still on his trouser ties. 

It was a detail only relevant because that was when Maverick stuck his head in the door, heard Dani’s comment, noted where his hands and Jorge’s eyes were, and wisely decided to depart without saying a word.                                                          

Jorge _had_ bristled at the intrusion, but settled down again seconds later.                                                                

“I think he’s my favourite of the miserable lot. He talks the least, anyway.” 

“Mine too,” Dani laughed. “If I had favourites, anyway. And if you think he doesn’t talk, just wait until he gets a lime cordial inside him.” 

Jorge bit his lip. “I probably deserved that.” 

“Take it like a man, Jorge.” His stomach rumbled, reminding him that he was skipping a meal to change clothes. “Coming to the canteen?”     

“If it’s free, I’ll even buy you lunch.”                                                         

Dani inhaled calmly, and exhaled his doubts. “Would you… hold that thought, for two weeks?” He met Jorge’s eyes squarely and hoped he wasn’t making an utter _fool_ of himself. “Dinner with me, sometime when this is over?” 

Pleasant surprise lit up Jorge’s face. “Yes,” he answered softly, but surely. “I’ll do that. I’d _like_ that.”                                                                    

They shared a short, private smile, and Dani hadn’t felt this optimistic about life in _years_.                                                      

-*- 

The afternoon was spent resting; no point training to exhaustion the day before the gymnastics started. Then there was preparation for the Opening Ceremony, making their way to the stadium and standing in the corral for at least an hour before they were called in under the bright lights and cheers of a packed arena, and Dani just tried to keep smiling and keep the other gymnasts together (herding cats, he’d swear to _God_ ) as the four of them, at their first Games, craned their necks this way or that taking everything in. Luckily, grace and catlike reflexes won out during the semi-frequent collisions with each other and the other athletes, or there would be worldwide and public embarrassment for team Spain when its gymnasts sprawled out on the animated floor.  

Seeds safely collected and ‘planted’ Dani followed the guides to the correct point. Spain wasn’t the biggest contingent by any measurement, but they took up their fair share of space on the floor.                                                                 

Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Jorge winking at him. Dani grinned, and relaxed, and let himself soak up the near carnival atmosphere of these Games, his third.                                                                                                    

Rio had promised to be _cool_ , the party of all parties in recent memory. Looking around him, Dani could believe it. 

He’d enjoy the night and the ceremony of it all. 

Tomorrow, it was _on_.

 

06/08/16- Saturday.

Thing was, they started on the pommel horse. So Dani had four dispirited young men all looking to him for advice at the end of their first rotation, but he also had select wisdom to give them in return.                                                                                                              

“Are any of us a pommel specialist?” He asked the team, matter of fact, as they lined up to walk to their next apparatus.

Pol took the plunge by answering. “None of us were expecting to get through to the individual finals-”             

“Case and point,” Dani said ruthlessly, because they couldn’t dwell on it. “Okay, so Alex fell off,” he spared an apologetic glance for the man in question, “But Marc, Maverick, Pol- you three didn’t, so we’ve got three okay scores adding up on what could be considered our collective weakest apparatus with five to go. We’ve got a solid platform to improve from, here.” They were twelfth after the first round; no matter what he pumped his team up with, Dani was praying for a _miracle_.                                                                                

He saw the belief re-ignite in his team; they all stood straighter as they marched to the chairs beside the horizontal bar. “What I want,” he explained, trying to inject leadership certainty into a team that needed direction, “Is Maverick up first. Give it your best on the day.” He tried to gentle the expectation on the young man’s shoulders, but fact of the matter was: Maverick Vinales was worthy on any apparatus, but _blew the world_ away on the horizontal bar. They needed his high score, and Maverick needed the self-belief that was getting into the individual finals on his chosen apparatus. “Then will be myself, to give you a second, solid base to wow from. Then Pol, then Marc.” He slapped the Alex on the back, the closest to him. “Do you understand?” And Dani added a white lie to his words. “I will not settle for anything less than fifth after this round, and we can definitely make fourth if we try.”                     

He was including the extra deduction for a fall in his hasty mental maths. Just in case. But Maverick wowed the world, as Dani expected, leading the apparatus standings, and he himself stayed on, which was a big plus after his attempted morale-rising bluster.                                 

And Pol fudged his dismount, taking two steps sideways, and the judges deducted three tenths for it, despite him turning it into a crowd-pleasing turn, wink and wave.                                                                                         

Marc came out and grabbed Pol in a half-hug as he stepped up, and the other gymnast stepped down. It was especially poignant for Dani, because he remembered watching the two of them in previous championships, looking primarily to beat each other rather than work together.                            

(Literally, as a matter of fact, not just in competition.)                                                                                     

Then Marc jumped up, grabbed the bar, and Dani scrambled to remember anything except, _bloody hell, we might actually do this_.        

The rest of the team mercilessly took the mickey after he saw the final results (his face was a picture that he thinks the cameras got a shot of, damn them); there was the obligatory ‘Maverick is a fucking (but crowd/child friendly genius on our shoulders’ moment, but it was overshadowed by the fact that two solid scores (one, Dani was pleased to notice, being his own, Pol’s being dismissed in this case), and one outstanding result from the Figueres native had dragged their team up to third in the general standings.                                                                                     

And this after only two rounds, with two of their arguable best still to go. Dani tentatively allowed himself to hope as they followed the volunteer to the rings.

-*-                                                                                                   

Dani was pleased again (surprised too) when it wasn’t his score dismissed in favour of three higher on that particular apparatus (rings had never been his favourite, but Alberto murmured that his dismount execution edged out Alex’s difficulty bonus). It meant that they sunk to seventh in the standings after three rounds. What was previously smiles and jaunty steps became grimaces and tensed shoulders once more.                         

Dani took a breath, and exhaled slowly. “We have a shot here. We need eighth; we have seventh; we _will_ qualify. I will drag the score up kicking and screaming on the vault and get us into the top three if I have to, if you all want to make the point that much in the _heats_. But I’m counting on the ‘team’ part making sure I don’t have to risk breaking my ankle in a world competition for the fourth time on live television until the final at least, so Marc, Alex, Pol? Step up to the fucking mat; Maverick’s gotten us this far already.”                                                                                                       

He'd already played his encouragement and sympathy cards; it was time to try pissed (in controlled, manageable levels of course).                                 

He saw the anger rise in Marc’s eyes, but he thought it was more for the implied slight to his younger brother than Marc himself. Accordingly, he suggested Alex lead the team on the floor routines, and was rewarded when the young Cerveran scored third highest of all on the apparatus. He checked with Marc after the result was announced.                                                                  

“Are you calm enough to perform next?”                                                                                                 

Marc avoided his gaze. “I could,” he said quietly, “But it won’t be my best.”                                                                     

Dani respected the courage it must have taken Marc to admit that. Accordingly, he pointed Maverick to the floor next, then took to it himself before promoting Marc to what was, on paper, his best show.                                                       

And the extra five minutes worked _wonders_. Marc took the highest score on floor by an entire _point_ , and Dani couldn’t begrudge him for the team’s elevation to second that it resulted in.                                                                          

“Maverick, I want you up last,” Dani ordered, working it out in his mind as they moved on to the parallel bars. “You’re our best p-bar worker.”    

“Agreed,” Maverick said, with the slightest hint of an edge in his tone.                                                                  

“Me, Pol, then Alex,” he explained. “Two solid, one daring, one rescue.”                                                                         

“Oi!” Alex objected, alongside Maverick’s terse, repetitious agreement.                                                          

“Don’t bother,” Dani said, “Alex, even you admit you either get it spot on, or fall off.”                                                        

Alex gritted his teeth. “Not helping.”                                               

“Okay,” Dani lightly touched his shoulder. “It was meant to, because I was trying to say that there is absolutely no pressure on you, because there will be three other solid or better scores backing you up. You are the icing on the cake if you land it, and it doesn’t matter if you don’t. Okay?”          

Alex cracked his neck and shook out his arms. “Okay,” he muttered quietly.                                                              

Something clearly got through, because Alex nailed it, and they emerged from their fifth apparatus third in the standings. 

-*-                                                                                        

It was vault to go. Arguably, between that and floor, their best team apparatus.                                                                       

“Pol,” Dani caught the younger man as they lined up for the limited practice, “Do your safe vault, the 6.0, for the team. Go first and get a solid score in the bank.”                                                           

Pol eyed the twice over Olympic medallist squarely, knowing what was coming. “You’re going to do something stupid, right?”             

“We have to submit two vaults if we want a vault final,” Dani explained needlessly to the younger man who knew this already, “And you did all so want to make a point, so let’s put the risk on my first run, right?”                                                         

“Because you’ve got me, Marc and Alex to count if you royally screw up?” Pol asked meanly. He wasn’t overly fond of the pressure being put on his shoulders, and this a heat besides.                                                                        

But after his two runs, one safely banked for the team and one landed well enough for his own prospects, he watched in disbelief as Dani directed his personal coach to lay out the green mat in front of the springboard.                                    

Okay, so the disbelief was more from the fact that Alberto _did_ it. When had that been decided?                                                                    

It wasn’t something overly common for the male gymnasts; maybe ten in the world were supple, flexible enough to land a round off entry vault gracefully, regularly, enough to be competitive.                                                                       

Somehow, with three years since he’d seen Dani try it in competition, he’d forgotten what the smaller man was truly capable of.    

He watched, spellbound with the rest of the world, as Dani pitched himself into the round-off first, lifting off of the springs, twisting half before even touching the vault, pushing off and into a three twists straight somersault, and _sticking_ the landing. 

His second vault barely deserved a mention after that, except of course that it was a near perfect Dragulescu and who even was this, and where had he been hiding during London and Beijing? Dani could barely believe it himself as he held out his arms for balance, but kept his feet neatly in place, before turning and presenting to the judges for the last time.                                                                                  

He strolled merrily back to his team and dug out his hoodie, only seconds later noticing their silence. He looked up and was greeted by stares, gaping mouths and widened eyes.                                                              

“What?” He asked, suddenly unsure. Maybe his vaults weren’t as good as he’d thought they were?                                                                               

No. He’d nailed both landings; they would score highly for sure.                                                   

Nobody spoke.                                                                                             

Dani rolled his eyes. “You’ve seen me do that plenty of times in practice,” he stated levelly, a hint of petulance in his tone. 

“In practice, yeah.” Marc broke the stare-off. “That’s one thing. In competition, though… last time I saw you do something like that was Beijing. Before your second live break.” 

There was a definite edge of wonder in the younger man’s voice, so Dani grinned and rolled with it.                                                 

“Kicking and screaming, remember? I did promise.”                                                                  

“Did you _ever_ -” Marc’s voice went unnaturally high as Dani’s scores were announced over the tannoy.                                             

With a first score of 9.2 for execution, and a fully-awarded 6.6 difficulty, Dani made sure that Marc and/or Alex just had to stay on their feet landing their team vaults.                                         

With a second 6.4 difficultly and 9.4 execution, Dani secured himself the position of highest scoring vault finalist, scoring an average of 15.8.     

Pol was watching Dani with the glazed-over look of a man who had just been hit by a two-by-four. “When this is over, you are teaching me everything.”  

Dani flicked his fingers at the younger vaultist. “All in good time, grasshopper,” he drawled loftily.                                                       

As Marc coughed a laugh and went to line up, he just heard Pol drawl in return, equally amused, “Hai, sensei.” 

In the end, Alex’s score edged out his older brother’s, and they ended up with a team score of 46.4.                                                                              

It was enough to catapult Spain into first position to qualify for the final.                                         

-*-                           

_Holy shit_ , was Pol’s immediate thought. _We actually did it_ , was the second, closely followed by, _I guess he knows what he’s doing_.  

His doubts weren’t something he’d ever admitted to the team leader, but from the lack of extra training on the pommel (his least favourite apparatus) on the following day, he figured Dani understood his implicit apology anyway.                                                                         

The diminutive man had led a rag-tag, cobbled together team of Spanish gymnasts to first place in the team heats, with all of them scoring finals in their individual specialties. The longest any of them had been working together was thirty months, and that was Marc and Dani alone. Pol had joined eighteen months later, closely followed by Alex, joining just before the Worlds where the team achieved silver.                                                                      

Maverick had been a last minute addition due to injuries taking out the original selection, but somehow, he complimented rather than drew away from the team’s strengths.                                                                                   

Hell, Pol figured charitably. Dani had held them together this far, and made them the team to beat, at that. It was their turn to deliver something awesome on finals night.                                                                                

With sudden bravado, he dared the rest of the world to bring it.                                                      

-*-

 

08/08/16- Monday.                                                   

They had lunch together and called it a team meeting; last minute preparation for the afternoon to come. 

“If anybody’s feeling like a panic attack,” Dani said, looking each younger man in the eye, “Have it now, and get it out of the way.” 

Pol snorted and Marc rolled his eyes, but more worryingly, Maverick looked like he was considering it. Alex looked slightly green, as well.   

“Alright,” Dani laid all of his cards on the table. “I qualified with my team for an Olympic final once. Eight years ago. And we qualified in seventh, and finished sixth. It was a record best for Spanish gymnastics, men or women.                                                      

“We are already so far ahead of what Spain has done before, we’re making history. It doesn’t matter where we finish. But between you and me?” Dani leaned over the table, the barest hint of a smile lighting his face, “I _really_ want a medal. And I honestly think we can do it. So who’s with me?”    

The hi-five attempt was an epic fail, but shoulders across the board relaxed, so Dani counted it as a win. 

-*-                                             

“Why do we always get such a shitty starting position?” Pol moaned as they made their way to the rings. “It’s like Rio’s stacking the odds against us.”      

"Least you aren’t cooling your heels on the side,” Marc muttered.                                                                 

“Hush it, you’re up in half an hour on floor,” Dani stepped in. “We need you calm and collected, not pissed at life, the world, and Pol. No matter how tempting it is.”                                                            

Pol’s _harumph_ did the trick, breaking the tension.                                                             

“We’re in the same position here, pretty much, that we were in quali,” Dani pointed out reasonably. “A low-key start, but something stable that we can launch from.”                                                                             

“Stop talking in vault metaphors; we already know what you specialise in,” Alex bitched quietly. Then, in a whisper, he added, “I’m up in an Olympic final in half an hour. Hello, God, some help please?”                                                    

“Sooner would be better,” Pol added cattily, “Seeing as I’m up in five minutes.”                                                                                

“Break a leg?” Maverick offered, falsely solemn.                                            

Dani swatted him over the head, ankles twinging in sympathy. “Vault’s not for three more rotations. There’s time before that yet.”    

As the coach came over to lead Pol up to the apparatus, he looked ambivalent, caught between whether to laugh, or cry.                    

-*- 

They never expected to score high on rings, but to be seventh out of eight after the first rotation was still a blow. The three of them had performed clean routines, but their difficulty levels being relatively low meant they barely ranked as competitive.                      

“Onwards and upwards,” Dani said, injecting cheer he didn’t quite feel into his voice. “Alex, get your game face on.”                                                         

The younger Cerveran was still murmuring something that sounded like an expletive-laden prayer to whichever Gods might be listening. Dani left him to it, right up until he needed to get on the platform.                                                                                                   

He didn’t realise his leg was jiggling until Maverick raised an eyebrow at him. Sheepishly, Dani forced himself still.                

"He'll be fine," the horizontal bar specialist said. Unfortunately, he sounded like he was trying to convince himself as much as anyone else. 

“He’ll be brilliant,” Marc corrected, amending to, “He’d _better_ be brilliant,” as Alex lined up his first tumble. Then the older Marquez was yelling, screaming even, as Alex landed that one and the next chain with only a small hop on landing, counting the seconds he held his handstand for, glaring down the linesmen, daring them to raise a flag every time Alex made it to the edge of the floor.                                                                  

Then the last chain- round off, walkover, _whipover_ and thump off into the tucked double Arabian somersault-                                                                         

-and the little shit only went and _stuck it_.                                                                                              

“Yes!” Marc was leaping up, fist pumping in the air as Alex presented for the final time and practically skipped off of the platform, riding high on the good performance. And when the score came through- barely any time, there can’t have been much discrepancy- it reflected in his happiness, raised from his heat score by 0.2.                                              

It beat all of the rings final scores by 0.9 at the least.                                                                

Marc nudged Maverick and nodded him over to the steps. “Top that, hotshot.”                                                                                 

His fellow all-rounder smirked back at him, and discretely flipped him off as he walked away.                                                                        

Gods, Dani hoped that wasn’t caught on camera. 

-*-                                                                                

With two specialists and two all-round individual competitors (one of them the same person) their floor rotation was always going to be something spectacular.

Second. Two out of six rotations down, and they were contending for a medal. America, currently half a point ahead, weren’t out of reach for gold either, and Dani knew for a ‘fact’ (alternatively, Nicky Hayden’s re-enactment of _Gossip Girl_ ) that their two best rotations were the two already completed; the USA would hold station, or sink down the rankings.                                                         

Italy in third, and Great Britain in fourth, were more of a concern; Italy had two floor specialists themselves yet to compete and Britain had their strongest apparatus, the pommel horse, last so would shoot up the rankings at the eleventh hour. In theory.                                                

Spain were set to finish with the horizontal bar. On paper, that was ending on a high note. In practice, it was Maverick and Marc’s first Olympics, and nerves were funny things. Hell, it was Dani’s third Olympics and he was twitching on and off.                                                                          

But he just had  _hope_ that they could get this together. If he could manage his nerves on vault, get the team into a commanding position, they  _might_  hold on to the gold.                                                                                      

Heady thoughts. And far too early for that, besides; he could just as easily break a wrist instead.                                               

He shook his head sharply, blanking it all out. Parallel bars. Not one he or Marc were active in, so they set up station on the chairs and alternatively cheered and swore as the three went through their routines.                                                       

Maverick had his first wobble of the competition, but he managed to rescue it without falling. It was still a three tenths deduction, putting him four tenths below his qualifying score.                                                          

Dani’s heart sank, even as Pol matched his first performance.                                                                      

Then Alex, sweet, young, snarky, sailor-mouthed Alex who was always going to land it or face plant between the bars, only went and snuck a full extra twist into his dismount that raised his starting score by three tenths. And he _stuck_ it, grinning like the Cheshire Cat of stories.                                                      

“Do they deduct for smugness?” Pol wondered in an undertone.                                                                

“If they do,” Dani swallowed his pulse back down, because it was racing and he hadn’t even _done_ anything, “We’re in serious trouble.”                                  

Maverick was off like a shot the moment Alex stepped off the platform, grabbing and hoisting him into a full on, rib-creaking hug.  

Alex was laughing from a foot above his own height, lightly supporting himself on Maverick’s shoulders.                                                                  

“You got us this far, right?” Alex chuckled with a glance thrown in Dani’s direction. “Now the rest of us gotta step up to the fucking plate.” 

He’d barely stepped back on solid ground when his score came in; when they worked out that he’d improved on his qualifying by six whole tenths, Maverick reeled him in again.                                                                              

“Hey,” Alex said quietly, pulling himself free and keeping hold of Maverick’s biceps. “No freaking out; it’s against the rules. What this is, is a team event, and we got each other’s backs, right?”                                                             

This time, when Dani attempted the hi-five (after discreetly wiping away the solitary tear that was threatening), the others followed through with a yell should have shaken the roof. 

They could _do_ this. 

-*- 

Dear Mother of God and all His Holy Angels, he couldn’t do this. 

Dani stared down the run up to the vault, eyeing up the mat, the springs and the main event with something he would delicately call trepidation. 

His warm up had resulted in a horrific stumble that might as well put him out of contention if he did it again.                                                                

The other two had already gone; Pol had landed cleanly, but Alex had stepped outside of the lines on landing. They were only scoring slightly above the par, currently. If they wanted that gold, Dani had to do this _perfectly_.                                                                                      

He had to land it like he did in qualifying. Like he did four times in five in the training gym.                                                                                    

Like he had when Jorge had watched him, barely a week ago.                                                             

With a deep breath, Dani closed his eyes and recreated that feeling, pissed but curious, wanting, _rapturous_ on landing. When he opened them, he looked to his team, and remembered _why_ they were doing this.                                                                                  

And just like that, Dani spun, presented, and lined up on the mark. He checked the green light, took one more breath, quick, in, out-                                 

-and he ran. 

Round off, half twist, handspring, hold your fucking legs together and twist, and land-                            

-and _land_ - 

-and _stick_. 

Dani raised his arms and face to the sky, drinking in the multitudinous roar.                                             

Barely daring to hope, he walked off with the coach’s arm slung around his neck and frantic, happy cries and whoops and pleas as the rest of the team reached them-                                                    

-and as with the heats, when his score was posted, it topped the standings. 15.9. Execution 9.5, a tenth up from qualifying.  

Mother of God, _they could do this_.        

-*-                                                                    

“All you need to do,” Dani said for the third time, as Pol, their third man, stood up to compete, “Is stay on the damn horse. This is not the apparatus to be walking the narrow beam of podium or face plant.”                                                       

“I did hear you the first time. And the second,” Pol snarked, shaking out his wrists, adjusting the tape.                                                                 

“I’m adding to it,” Dani fired back. “We are two for two. Don’t do flashy. Don’t do daring. Do solid, do good, and keep us squeaked ahead in gold at the end of it. Okay?”                                                        

For all the snark, Pol appeared serious as he nodded. “I hear you, team leader.”                                                             

“Good man,” Dani clapped him on the back, like he had the other two, and sent the young man on his way. 

And Dani would swear before a jury of nuns, his whole team was made up of _little shits_ (disregarding that he was the shortest one of the lot of them), because Pol just couldn’t resist making it a double pirouette to dismount, rather than his normal single.                                                 

As the man strutted back down, Dani snapped, “If you had face planted, I would have gleefully killed you on live television.”       

Pol grinned sunnily, unaffected by the ire. “It’s all good, team leader. All good.” He caught sight of the boards as his score came up. “Screw that,” he changed his mind, “I’m _awesome_.” 

“I could kill you _so happily_ right now,” Dani muttered, even as he smiled. “Except the judges frown upon that sort of thing.”                      

They were _half a tenth_ ahead of Italy, currently second, with horizontal bar to go. Italy were due for parallel bars; unless either Andrea had been hiding a specialty for the last five years, Spain could _keep_ ahead even if they coasted what should be for them an exceptional final rotation.  

And they had an ace. Or a Maverick, as it were.                                                        

“Never mind the judges, have you seen the security around this place? I’d worry about their bad side more than the judges’.”                                                     

“The security doesn’t affect our medals eligibility,” Dani argued.                                                             

“But you can’t win a medal from a holding cell.”                                                         

Little shits the lot of them; Dani disgruntledly conceded the bicker. 

-*- 

“Maverick,” Dani caught the specialist en-route, “I would like for you to go last. But only if you think you can handle it.” 

“Why?” the younger gymnast asked. “You had me first in qualifying.” 

“Because,” Dani spoke frankly, “If Marc or I have a fall, I’d like you in the wings waiting to nail your 7.8 starting difficulty routine, rather than the 7.4 you performed in the heat.”                                                                                                   

Speaking of nailing, Dani felt pinned under Maverick’s inquiring stare. “Do you think I can do it?” he asked quietly. 

“Yes,” Dani said simply. 

Maverick visibly let that sink in, and then nodded. “Okay,” he acquiesced verbally.                                

“Okay,” Dani nodded back. Then, quirking the ghost of a smirk, he added, “Break a leg?” 

-*- 

They waited, all the team together as Maverick stepped up to the bar, arm in arm down the line.                                                           

As one, they held their breath when he did his first release, and Dani realised, with some ungodly lovechild of horror and awe, that the specialist was performing his 7.8 anyway, despite himself and Marc posting competitively.                                                                       

Maverick caught the bar again; the team dared to breathe. But only once, because he went and threw himself off again, pitching into a double full tucked somersault, twisting beautifully, eyes tracking the bar the entire time, arms reaching out to snag it and continue his momentum seamlessly.               

As a team, they were hyperventilating as Maverick wound up for the dismount. “Do the tuck,” Dani prayed, uncaring that the others could hear him. Maverick’s normal dismount was a back half-out somersault, tucked, steady enough to pull the routine together. 

“Sod that,” Pol cut in. “C’mon Maverick, do the pike!” He raised his voice so it carried across the arena. The pike was what Maverick brought out on special occasions.                                                  

Of _course_ , Maverick did the pike.                                        

And he landed, and got his chest up, and he hopped forward. Steadied himself.                                                             

And he stood tall, presented calmly as he pleased to the judges, then turned to where the team was waiting.                

He dived off the platform into waiting arms, and they were all world-worthy gymnasts, flexible and strong but still half of them fell when their last member crashed into them, and Dani and Alex sunk to their knees besides the pile, leaning into the sheer relief that was six clean(ish) rotations and the unadulterated joy that was waiting on confirmation, but Dani was pretty damn sure they had just won the gold. 

_Gold_.                                                                                                               

“Do not swear,” he laughed as he laid the law down for his team mates, “As soon as Maverick’s score goes up, we’re going to have every camera in this arena on us, so don’t any of you swear!” 

And if Dani himself let out a squeaked _holy shit_ when they got the confirmation, and saw Spain proudly written at the top of the table, well, they’d only tease him a couple of times. Per day. For the rest of his life but how could Dani care, because-                                                              

-because they had done it. He’d told himself all along that they could do it, and _they’d done it_.                                                                         

Spain were the men’s team gymnastics Olympic Champions. 

-*-

 

09/08/16- Tuesday.                                                                         

Dani barely glanced up as his team invaded his shared room. He was just glad his roommate was absent; in light of recent agreements, antagonising Jorge was directly opposite of what Dani wanted to do (to him), and the man would probably never play nicely with his friends.            

Yes, Gods help him. They were a team, and maybe only because they were successful, but whatever the reason, the result was that somewhere between the medal ceremony and the sober party last night, they were also _friends_.                                                                                                   

They were still in high spirits one day after the Event, and begrudgingly he felt his own rising to meet them. All it took was a quick glance sideways to his bedside table and shit, yup, there went his smile.                                                         

Seeing a gold medal beside the bed will do that to a man.                                                                 

He bit the bullet, waving them over to the single bed for a puppy pile. It was a tough fit, but they were a team of short arses and lithe grace so with careful negotiation of knees and elbows, they managed.                                                                               

Dani curled up on his pillow, and grinned at his current place in life.                                               

Marc and Alex Marquez, Maverick Vinales, Pol Espargaro and Dani Pedrosa. Spain’s first gymnasts to win an _Olympic_  gold medal. A young team, with Dani as team leader (a post that he felt entailed _nothing_ more than herding cats) who had come into the Rio Olympics with so much expectation riding on their shoulders after silver at the last World Championships-                                                     

-and they’d only gone and actually _done it_. Dani was still waiting for reality to kick in.                                                    

“So,” Pol drawled from somewhere around his left ankle, “What’s the plan, team leader?”                                                  

Dani blinked, and sat up slightly. “Plan?”                                                           

“You’re going to settle for this team bringing only one gold back home?” The drawl turned into a cocky smirk.                                                  

The eldest gymnast rolled his eyes. “We have already topped my previous two Olympics,” he pointed out, slightly sour but mostly wry, enjoying the fleeting worry crossing the young men’s faces. “So hell no. This is my last show; I’m going for broke.” The lot of them grinned, some more cat-like than others. They each had an individual final coming up; Marc and Maverick, being in the all-round finals also, had two. There was plenty of opportunity for glory (and gracious plenty competitiveness, ability and outright arrogance to bluff a dodgy dismount if accidents called for it).                                                                                

“Hopefully not literally?” Maverick suggested with an angelic smile. “Again?”                                                                         

Dani ignored him with all the dignity he could muster.                                                                                    

“But, seriously,” Marc spoke up, suiting tone to words and more subdued than his wont, “Any last minute words of wisdom for us?”    

“Snacks and water,” Dani replied immediately. “Little and often; you’ve done this before at the Worlds, Marc, you know this.”                                                    

“I haven’t,” Maverick pointed out, “I’ve done individual apparatus finals, but never an all-round. So anything you can give me is greatly appreciated.” He leant over to better hear Dani’s answer. Incidentally, that left him lying half over Alex, but the youngest man put up with it with barely a sigh. Maverick propped his elbows up on Alex’s shoulder blades and awaited the dispensation of wisdom.                                                      

“Incidentally,” Dani pointed out, “I’ve only done one, and that was eight years ago.” He paused, and seriously thought about it. “Maverick, at the end of the day it’s a blend of two things- a three hour solid workout in training, and the constant pressure of competing for three hours in a packed arena.”        

“Great,” Maverick summarised, “Basically, it’s the sixth circle of hell.”                                                                                                    

“Nerves are normal,” Dani told him, over Pol’s muttered _Sixth? Why sixth?_ and Alex’s equally low _Six apparatus, six circles, right?,_ noticing in amusement how the others had leaned in too, edging closer to each other. “It’s how you manage them and use them that affects how well you compete."

“…Really?” the horizontal bar specialist asked quietly, after briefly pausing. “I mean, I know I was nervous with the team final, but I won’t even have you guys with me to help manage it this time. It’s… normal, to feel like this?”                                                                           

Dani nodded kindly. “Completely normal. Manage your nerves, shine on the bars and go solid on the rest, and you’ll do well. Trust me, okay?”

“Well,” Maverick bit his lip, something seeming to settle within him, “You did just lead this team to its _first Olympic gold medal_.”      

Shit, there went Dani’s grin again. This team was infectious. “Good luck out there tomorrow,” Dani said sincerely. “I’ll-” he hastily amended with glares from the other two- “We’ll be watching you every step of the way from the stands, okay?”                                                                               

“You’ll hear us, if nothing else,” Alex promised.                                                                           

“Group hug?” Pol suggested with a mischievous grin, but this was not the sort of team to double-dog dare without consequences; the gymnast from Granollers was immediately relegated to the bottom of the puppy pile.                                                

Then the door slammed.                                                                                  

Heart suddenly thumping, Dani spat out some of Marc’s hair and craned his neck to see around Alex’s calf.                                                                      

Jorge crossed his arms and raised an eyebrow. “If you boys wanted an orgy, you should wait until the eighteenth. I’ll be out for the day.” 

Dani tried not to show how completely _stupid_ he was for the man (and ignoring the slight sting at the comment, and filing away the little piece of the puzzle as to maybe why Jorge was such a bastard around the team. Multitasking: Dani can). “Jorge,” he groaned, as Maverick shifted a knee into his kidney, “Young, impressionable minds.”                                                                         

“Good point,” Marc chipped in unhelpfully, “Why aren’t we having wild, kinky, slightly incestuous sex in my room?”                       

“We’re acrobatic and- exhibitionist too,” Pol wheezed from the bottom of the pile, getting his wind back, “No risk of getting caught.”       

Arseholes, Dani thought fondly, as he met Jorge’s eyes staunchly. He refused to apologise for bonding with the closest team he’d ever competed with, the team he’d become Olympic Champions with.                                                                   

If he was right, he'd beat the fact of _friendship versus crush_ into Jorge’s smug skull and then laugh at the notion of the triathlete actually being jealous over the little shits.                                                                                                   

But there was a smidgeon of what could be called guilt curling in the pit of his stomach, too. Dani told it to shut up and get with the program.     

Jorge didn’t look happy, or even vaguely amused at the interjections. Dani sighed, extracted himself from the crush and gracefully slithered back to kneel before his pillow. “Young, impressionable, wholly corrupted minds,” he added, trying for levity.                    

It fell flat in the face of Jorge’s dark frown. _Was_ that his problem?                                                                                       

“I was going to enjoy some peace and quiet, but I suppose I must find it elsewhere.” Jorge paused in the doorway before sweeping out, slamming the door behind him again.                                                                                     

“Huh.” The rest of the team untangled themselves, settling something like where they had before. Marc continued his exhalation, finishing the thought. “I think he wanted you to kick us out and ask him to stay…”                                    

“In his own room?” Alex queried that theory. “Like he needs the permission.”                                              

“’Yes’ on the kicking us out bit, though,” Pol agreed. “He wanted peace and quiet.” A breath, and a grin. “And Dani.”                

“How is this my life?” the man in question muttered to himself. He slumped back on his pillow and barely resisted throwing a hand over his eyes in truly dramatic fashion.                              

Either he was louder than he thought, or Marc’s hearing was sharper than the younger man generally advertised, because the Cerveran native looked around and smirked at him.                                   

“Is it that murder spree you went on as a teenager?” He asked innocently.                                                                                

Dani spluttered, “What- what murder spree? I’ve never killed anyone!”                                            

“Huh.” Marc mulled that over for longer than the comment deserved. “Must have been a previous life, then.”                                                         

Pol stifled a snicker. On further examination, Alex wasn’t even trying to hold in his amusement, grinning ear-to-ear at the two of them.      

Amusement indicated knowledge of what the joke was about. Dani let that slide into his head and settle heavily in his brain, slimy and gruesome when he poked at it.                                                                         

He turned to the last man in their team, hitherto silent. “Does everyone know?”                                                                          

Unmoved by Dani’s begging, Maverick shrugged. “Looks like,” he said simply. “Want me to explain what everybody knows, just in case?”        

“Want me to explain what I found tucked under your mattress?” Dani returned lightly, perfectly willing to utilise blackmail.                                          

Just in case everybody didn’t, yanno, know. 

Maverick raised an eyebrow. “Well played, team leader.” He gave Dani two slow claps. 

“No! Boo!” Marc called. “I demand an explanation! C’mon, Dani, I share a room with this guy. What did you find under his mattress?”                                           

“Why is that, anyway?” Pol wondered. “Why’d I get stuck with him?” He elbowed the younger Marquez, not hard enough to actually wound. Or even bruise. Alex had a floor final in five days, and brave would be the one to cause issues before he even stepped up to the mats.                                                         

The Wrath of Marc Marquez was truly a scary thing to behold. And screwing up his little brother’s first individual Olympic final? Marc would be wrathful indeed.

“Pol.” His name brought the vault specialist up short. “I shared a room with him for twelve years.  Believe me, I know your pain. And if I can get out of suffering it again, I do.”                                                             

“Least I don’t hide dubious sounding materials under my mattress,” Alex scowled at the lot of them.                                                       

“No, but you talk in your sleep,” Marc revealed off hand, before turning back to his roommate. “What’s with the mattress, anyway?”      

Watching Maverick twitch under increasingly impertinent questions from the other three team Spain gymnasts, Dani risked a grin. It was worth sacrificing blackmail of the love letter he’d found from Maverick’s girlfriend to get the rest of them off his back.                                                                   

“Alright!” He called out, as Maverick reached shades of purple with embarrassment, “Marc and Maverick especially, get to bed. I know you won’t sleep for a couple of hours, but let me live in blissful ignorance and think you’re going into tomorrow well rested. Alex, Pol…” he eyed the two suspiciously. “Don’t get caught,” was all he eventually said.                                                         

Identical, beatific smiles lit up their faces. 

Everyone was still smiling, even 26 hours after the event, as he shooed them out of the door. 

-*-

 

10/08/16- Wednesday. 

It was like pulling a _mule_ , never mind a horse, to water _and_ making him drink, but Dani somehow convinced Jorge to join the rest of the team in watching Marc’s and Maverick’s all-round individual final.                                                      

He counted it a tentative victory when, three rotations in, the Majorcan had loosened up enough to be smiling at the Spanish gymnasts’ success, and wincing in time with the other three when the occasional three-tenths deduction crept into their execution scores.                                        

After Marc’s floor routine, Jorge leant over the seat, asking: “Isn’t that the Arabian double tumble you were practising the other day?”          

Pol and Alex sat up sharply to stare at him. 

Jorge hunched back defensively. “What?” He snapped.                                              

With a weary sigh, Dani stepped in to play peacemaker again. “Yes, Jorge, but it’s not like I own a patent on it; yes, Alex, Pol, Jorge knows gymnastics well enough to sound intelligent in discussions about it, and yes, everyone, I find it sort of cute.”                                                                  

Dani didn’t think he was lucky enough to have not said that last part aloud. Nonetheless, he enjoyed the strained silence, until Marc’s impossibly high score was posted and he let out a thrilled whoop as the gymnast in question pumped his fist in the air.                            

The noise, unfortunately, wasn’t enough to drown out Pol’s delighted, “I _knew_ it was a date!”                                                               

-*- 

“So,” Alex judged how the groups were moving around. “Marc’s got vault and rings left, and Maverick’s got pommel and p-bars.”   

“Jesus,” Jorge said, looking at the four-in scores. “Marc’s got half a point in the lead, and second to third is another four tenths- but third, fourth, Maverick in fifth- any of them could medal.”                                                        

Dani hummed in agreement. “But- with the best will in the world- Marc’s average on rings and half a mark above that on vault. If anything, Maverick should have a better finish; he’s damned good on p-bars even if they’re not his absolute favourite. As long as he scores what he did in qualifying on the pommel, he’ll beat Marc in the final third. Not catch him, understand, but on those two compared directly, he’s up there.”                                                                

Jorge eyed the scores dubiously. “I don’t think Maverick’s got enough in him for second,” he said heavily. “Even with a 9.5 execution on pommel, his difficultly isn’t high enough to get past…” He squinted, trailing off in disbelief. “Iannone? Andrea Iannone?” There was disbelieving recognition in his voice. 

Dani’s head whipped around so fast he cracked a vertebra. “You know Andrea Iannone?” One half of the Italian (San) Andreas (Fault, as they were affectionately nicknamed), the two were the rising stars of Italian gymnastics. They had competed in individual finals in London and got into the Italian team two years ago for the Worlds.                                                                                                   

“He supplied the elderflower cordial. Rossi called him up halfway through the night. I swear to God, the things I did not want to know about that man…”    

Pol and Alex looked entirely too interested in their conversation, so Dani shelved it. “Yeah, I hate to admit it, but you’re probably right. Maverick’s definitely got enough for bronze though, with the p-bars. As you said, and as long as Marc keeps it clean, I don’t think anybody will catch him.” 

And because sometimes, just sometimes, life could be truly _beautiful_ , the words proved prophetic.                                                           

“You know,” Jorge leant over so the brats wouldn’t hear him, whispering into Dani’s ear directly.                                        

Dani’s hands clamped down on the plastic armrests.                                                  

“If you boys keep it up- two golds and a bronze from the six medals awarded so far- you’ll have more medals between the five of you than the rest of the Spanish contingent put together.”                                                                  

The gymnast pulled back sharply, but there was nothing sarcastic in the words. “You think we can?”                                                                     

It suddenly dawned on him; he’d been cajoling the rest of the team along for their first two days of competition, reinforcing their faith and belief in themselves, in their abilities and the collective. 

It was… nice, to have somebody sort-of saying it to him, for once.                                                   

As he seemed fond of doing, Jorge winked. “I know it.”                                                         

“…Thanks.” It seemed almost inadequate, but more so the perfect thing to say. 

Behind and unseen by the two, Alex was rolling his eyes and Pol was in a fits of _delight_ over how much money he figured Marc now owed him. 

(Unknown to all of them, Marc and Maverick were congratulating each other’s podiums when they caught sight of the cameras, showing on the big, central screens, the rest of the Spanish team’s reaction in the stands. 

Winking and publicly secret smiles? Gods, they were fooling _nobody_.) 

-*- 

“Seriously.” Jorge rolled over to face the invading masses that was the rest of the team as, once again, they piled into his and Dani’s room. “Between the lot of you, there are two entirely gymnastic bedrooms. And yet, you choose to repeatedly hack off the triathlete. Why?”                                                                

“Team leader!” Pol pointed at Dani, who was industriously examining his nails. 

“Ground zero?” Maverick offered, less tongue in cheek.                                                                

“The very real, visceral pleasure I get from hacking you off every time we do.” Marc went with.                                         

The Majorcan eyed the three of them viciously, before finding a silent Alex standing behind them. “Less annoying Marquez, you are now my favourite.”      

Dani was studiously examining his nails, fighting down beaming smiles as he listened to the bickering, because he didn’t think he was imagining the lessening levels of _bite_ in Jorge’s expressions when he looked at the rest of his team. 

Marc’s hands fluttered up to rest over his heart. “My little brother, beloved of the First Lady of Spain’s men’s gymnastics!”

With Herculean effort, Jorge ignored him to start lambasting the younger. But team and triathlete turned as one with astonishment, as Dani slipped and rolled off of his bed, taking the sheet with him and flailing into the carpet.                              

Jorge snorted. “Ladies and gentlemen, the Olympic Champions’ team leader!” 

Dani fought free of the cotton. “ _First lady?_ ”                                               

“Oh, you aren’t married?” 

And most astonishing of everything that had gone on that day, Jorge looked at Marc, and Marc looked at Jorge, and they got in on the joke _together_. 

“Look, sweetie,” Jorge leant over on his stomach and propped his chin daintily on a palm, “I know it was a bit of a whirlwind ceremony, but that’s no excuse for forgetting it entirely!”                                                   

Dani didn’t even bother sitting up; he’d only be put back on his arse in a matter of seconds. “The world has gone mad,” he lamented. 

With Alex smiling his eerily Cheshire-like grin again, Dani was fully willing to believe he’d tumbled into Wonderland. 

As the rest of the team tangled up together on his sheet-less bed, and started heckling Jorge (who held his own better than any single man against four really deserved to) Dani figured he’d not want to be anywhere else right now.

-*-

 

13/08/16- Saturday.                                                               

“Don’t you _ever_ train?” 

Jorge raised an eyebrow at the panting, sweaty, half-naked gymnast who’d just practised another one of his round off entry vaults. Not one he immediately recognised, from previous competitions or personal knowledge.                                      

“And miss this?” Jorge let his eyes run over the shorter man’s physique, the growing smirk indicating that yes, he liked what he saw. “You’ve already seen me half naked; I thought I’d return the favour.”                                                      

There was a _thud_ from the practice floor behind them, and gymnast and triathlete turned to investigate.                                                                

Slightly dazed, Marc got back to his knees and crawled back onto the mat. “Fudged a landing,” he explained. “Could’ve happened anytime, complete coincidence. It’s not like I was listening or-”                                                                

“Marquez,” Jorge cut in, “Shut up and quit while you’re not sinking.”                                      

“Okay,” the current best gymnast in the world managed weakly.                                            

“And Pol,” Dani spun on his heel, and the other vault specialist froze like a deer in the headlights. “My potential love life is not more interesting than your potential silver medal. Understand?”                                                                

Pol blinked. “Silver?”                                                                

“I’m not letting you beat me for gold, am I?”                                               

“Ah,” Pol nodded sagely. “That’s how it is. I get it. The kid gloves are off, every man for himself, any other clichés I should mention?”                              

“Much to learn, you still have, young Padawan,” Dani fired off. “Now line up with your markers and show me your best back handspring half on straight somersault twist off vault.”                                                                

There was a moment where the word _processing_ could be inferred from the blank look on the gymnast’s face. Then he frowned. “My best is a two twist off.”

“Then land it perfectly,” Dani said, “Because at 6.0 difficulty, you’re already four tenths down on the majority of the guys we’re competing against.” 

“What if I take a note from your book?” Pol shifted from foot to foot.                                                                

“The Dragulescu?” Dani queried. “That’s still a 6.0, Pol.”                                                       

The younger man stubbornly held his ground. “Not in pike, it isn’t.”                                                                

Dani cocked his head. “If you can pull it off,” he considered, “That might work. And it has a different entry if you still wanted to use the two twist off as your banker.”                                                    

“I’m confident in it,” Pol asserted. 

“So nail the piked Dragulescu first, then pick up the pieces just in case you don’t with the twists.”                                                                                  

“What are you doing, out of curiosity?” Jorge asked from the side.                                                                

“Are you still here?” Dani didn’t even glance at him.                                                       

“Are you still half-naked? And you haven’t answered my question.”                                                               

“I’m opening with my 6.6 round off entry. If I land that, I’m going with my handspring Arabian double half-out.”                                              

“Shit.” Pol did some quick mental maths. Dani’s average difficulty was going to be 6.4, two tenths higher than his own. “In the nicest possibly way, Dani, I hope you fail.”                                                                

“Gee,” Dani wryly said, “Thanks. Now line your arse up with the markers, and show me your piked Dragulescu.”         

“Yes, boss.” Pol scurried away. 

Dani looked back to the gaze he felt drilling holes into the back of his head. “Yes?”                                           

Jorge ogled him shamelessly. “You. Being all half naked, sweaty, short and authoritative. I find it sort of cute.”                                                        

_Thud_. The distinct sound of somebody not even trying to land on the vault, but running straight past and stacking it onto the crashmat. 

_Thud_. This time from the floor again.                                                                               

“Ow!”                                           

Dani mused over the available evidence. “Are you being paid off by the Italians to put the Spanish team out of commission?”                                               

“Nah,” Jorge disagreed cheerfully. “I’m just thinning the crowd for you.”                                                                

Dani crossed his arms over his chest. Jorge openly admired the bunching of his shoulder muscles. “I’m not on the floor.”                                             

There was a split second where the words hung in the air, ripe and waiting to be pounced upon.           

Shit, wait, that was _him_. He’d unconsciously braced himself, and damn it, the Majorcan could tell. 

Jorge blew a kiss at him. “Later, sweetie.”                                                                                                   

“We’d better start knocking,” Alex muttered to his older brother as he helped him up off of the ground. Again. “Don’t want to be walking in on anything.”

Pol paused, just within earshot across the apparatus from them. “Don’t we?” 

-*-

 

14/08/16- Sunday.

“So.”

“So.”                            

Marc tried to smile, but it came out as a grimace. Dani couldn’t _sympathise_ , per say; he’d never been in the man’s exact position, but he _could_ empathise. 

“No pressure.”                                                                

A scoff from the younger gymnast. “Really? I raise you two golds won already and a highest qualifying score.”                                                               

“Exactly.” Dani bopped him on the nose purely for the hilarious look of confusion it earned. “You are the best gymnast Spain has had, _ever_. Already. You have _two Olympic gold medals_ Marc. There’s nothing to prove. Just go out there and have fun.”                                                                          

Marc pursed his lips and breathed out heavily. “You know,” he admitted, “You’re kind of _good_ at this team leader prep-talk shit.” 

Dani let out a wry chuckle. “Thanks, you ingrate. Now get your arse to the stadium, and I’ll be with the others watching out for you and Alex in an hour or so."

“Yes boss,” Marc chirped, sounding happier at least.                                                                

-*- 

“I cannot believe,” Dani moaned, later that night in the privacy of his and Jorge’s shared room, “That I was cheering for somebody tumbling to _Timber_.” He paused, and raised a hand to his forehead. “Or that they _won_.”                                                   

The bastard simply laughed at the despair etched into every line of his body. “You’d have called it a crime against gymnastics if he hadn’t. I saw the highlights reel; Marc hit every line.”                                                                         

“I’m calling it a crime against taste and anybody in hearing that he _did_.”                                                                

Jorge let it lie with a quiet laugh. “How did Alex do? He wasn’t mentioned so I assume he didn’t medal?” 

Dani winced. Jorge followed suit, sensing where _that_ line of inquiry was ending up. 

“That bad? Did he fall?”                  

With a sigh, the gymnast explained: “He stayed on the floor, but got two five tenth deductions for putting his hands down on landing. His first and second chains. Ended up seventh out of eight when one of the Americans _did_ fall off of the floor.” 

“He’s young,” Jorge countered easily. “He’ll do better in Tokyo.” A smirk, then, “And I love your sport a little bit more because you can include phrases like ‘fall off of the floor’ and mean it literally, stone cold sober.” 

Dani scowled at him. 

-*-

 

15/08/16- Monday.                                                

“If I were a selfish, cruel, unfeeling bastard…” Jorge said leadingly at breakfast in the canteen. It was him and the team at their table, all up to either perform or cheer on two more of their individual finals.                                                  

“Yes.” Dani rolled his eyes, dry as the Sahara desert. “Let’s _assume_.”                                              

Magnanimously, the Majorcan ignored him. “If I _were_ that sort of bastard,” the other four, and most of the tables around them besides, were snickering into their coffee at that point, “This would be the perfect time to give you a kiss for luck.”                                                                

Dani felt his cheeks grow hotter. “You are a _magnificent_ bastard, Jorge Lorenzo,” he growled, “And a tease. And I hope you believe in karma, because by the time you’re lining up for that swim start, it will have been returned upon you.” 

Maverick coughed deliberately, breaking their stare off. “I wasn’t sure you’d remembered you were in a public space,” he explained hesitantly. “Around friends and in private is one thing, but-”                                                                          

“I’ve been out to my family since I was seventeen,” Jorge waved him off, “So I’ve no worries on that score. Dani?”                                                                

“Same,” the gymnast confirmed, “Well, to that effect. And we’d hardly be the first gay athletes to come out of an Olympics. There’s no reason to treat it like a dirty secret.”                                                                         

He incidentally caught Jorge’s eye as he picked up his mug, and flushed again at the stars apparent in it. 

“That might be the nicest thing you’ve ever not-said about me, Pedrosa.” The triathlete went for a drawl, but it came out sickeningly fond. 

“Barf,” Marc interrupted the moment. “Hey, Dani! Vault final coming up in an hour or so? Opportunity for Spain’s second double podium, third gold? Any of this ringing a bell?”                                                      

"Hey, Dani!" Pol added with a beaming grin, “Your potential love life is not more important than your potential third Olympic vault medal.”

Dani opened his mouth, but Jorge beat him to it. “Hold that thought?” He said good-naturedly. 

“Only until I kill the little shits I call my team mates,” Dani groused. 

Jorge smirked. “At least wait until they’ve got Spain three more medals in the table.” 

-*- 

“Stiff competition,” Pol muttered at him as they walked into the arena.                                                                

Dani glanced around as he took off his tracksuit (he _thinks_ he imagined the wolf-whistle from the crowd, but with Jorge there…), eyes lingering on the three he thought would be the biggest threats.                                                                              

From Italy, Andrea Dovizioso had qualified for the vault final as well as his earlier floor. He’d be fresh with confidence after taking silver to Marc’s gold.       

From France, relative rookie to the main stage, Johann Zarco. France hadn’t entered a team into the big event, but he’d qualified on vault individually. Zarco was as consistent as a gymnast could hope to be- he set the bar on his first run, and it was rare for him to fall below that, to not _improve_ , with every run that followed.                                                                                  

From Japan, their great hope and leading light in their resurgence as a force in world gymnastics, Takaaki Nakagami. The Japanese team this year had been incredibly young, and it had showed. They were a bit like Alex in that way- they would either hit it spot on, or fall flat (sometimes literally). Come Tokyo in four years, they would be a mighty force to be reckoned with. If Taka got it right today, he’d take some beating.                      

Dani had spent the first three years of his professional career training in Japan- it showed to this day in his vault style. He recognised and bowed respectfully to the Japanese coach; Nakamoto gave him a half smile as he bowed back.

He’d also spent some time in Switzerland, mostly during his recovery years; their program leant itself to easing back into peak fighting form. He spared a smile for Tom Luthi; he’d been another who’d qualified as an individual, with no Swiss team present at the Games. He’d trained with the young man for two years before re-joining the Spanish program fully fit.                                                                                      

Rounding out the eight qualifiers were Great Britain’s Bradley Smith, and the most shocking entry, Hafizh Syahrin. The Malaysian had squeezed out Germany’s Jonas Folger by two hundredths in a massive upset for the German gymnast.                                                        

Deliberations complete, Dani could only agree with his team mate. “Yeah. Tough crowd.” He nudged the younger man on the arm. “So make sure you bring your A-game, okay?”                                                                              

“Right back at you, Romeo,” Pol nudged him back. 

For a _fraction_ of a second, Dani imagined Jorge as Juliet (white dress and wings optional). Then he shook his head and glared at the younger man. “Nice try.”

“Try?” Pol widened his eyes. “What try?”

“Game faces on, you little shit,” Dani grinned and shook out his arms. “Warm up’s about to begin.”

-*-

With their qualifying scores, Pol was third to last, and Dani last. He watched anxiously as the scores started ranking up: 15.6; 15.7; 15.8… they’d already topped his qualifying score, he realised, but nobody had come close to the 15.9 he’d posted in the team final. With mixed relief and sadness, he watched Dovi take a fall on his first landing. That was the lowest score so far, and _probably_ meant the Italian wouldn’t be challenging for a medal. 

Then it was Pol. 

With bated breath, Dani watched his compatriot present and steady himself for his piked Dragulescu.                                                               

It was easier and harder than watching him in the team event; Dani honestly wanted Pol to do well, and there was less pressure when it was only your own outcome affected by the vault. 

But Dani wanted to do _better_. There was the smallest part of him no honest athlete would deny agreeing with thinking, _I hope you do well, but not as well as me._                                                                 

Pol started running. Dani didn’t blink until he’d hit the vault, pushed off and piked his way through two somersaults with a half turn thrown on the end.

Not a perfect landing, but within the lines and chest upright. Any finalist would take that on his less confident entry.                                                                

He scored 15.7, entering in third with two to go- Dani himself, and the Frenchman. 

Zarco was averaging a 15.7 himself through the competition so far; it would be close. 

It _was_ close, but Pol still slipped to fourth. Then it was Dani. 

He could hear the tannoy going as Alberto laid out the extra mat; nobody else had needed it so far. Then quiet; as close to silence as he’d get in a stadium this size.                                                                

Dani presented, lined up, and fired off a quick prayer.                                                   

For the third time in the competition, Dani landed his round off-half on-triple twist off vault without breaking a bone. He felt himself list slightly, and castigated himself even as the automatic step correction knocked him down in points. He wouldn’t be getting a 15.9 this time, not unless his Arabian double execution proved something _spectacular._                                                                 

But- he’d landed it. And he scored a high 15.8, just enough to slide into the lead. He allowed himself a brief grin, before getting his headspace back for the second entry. 

The Malaysian was solid in his second run- in both his runs, actually- but they were just that, _solid_. They were good, mostly clean- small hops within the lines on landing- but racked up enough deductions throughout that Dani knew he’d been (harsh, but) correct to count him out of contention from the start.  

Smith scored similarly, but Luthi- he pulled off a _beautiful_ Tsukohara, pulling him ahead of the other two by a small margin.        

Dani quirked a grin as he noticed the extra mat being brought out for Nakagami. He was a product of his training, all right.                  

It was near identical to Dani’s first vault, but only (only! He was getting arrogant in his experience) two and a half twists off of the vault.     

(He conceded it was landed better, however, a tenth’s deduction maximum.)                                                                                 

It came down to difficulty versus execution, and with the stunning Swiss performance, it wasn’t enough to drop Luthi to second place; Nakagami slotted into second with four to go. 

Dovi stepped up, face impassive to hide what Dani reckoned were some fairly hefty nerves. Falling at all was awful, but on the first entry was the _worst_. 

_Then_ he shot upright in his seat, seeing the difficulty level posted for the Italian’s second run.                                                               

7.0.                                                                                                                                     

_He’s going for broke_ , Dani realised. And if Dovi pulled it off, _it might just work_.                                                                

Tucked triple front somersault: the Spaniard watched, entranced. He felt truly glad when the Italian stayed on his feet on landing. Even needing two steps forward, it was an impressive show.                                              

The crowd appreciated it too, applauding the effort wildly. But the first fall _had_ taken its toll, with the rest so far going clean, and Dovi was seventh of eight with a combined final score of 30.6.

Then, Pol. Dani worked out the difference from Tom and Nakagami- the younger Spaniard needed an execution of 9.5 or better to give himself a shot at the podium.                                                                

He crossed his fingers.          

The vault was clean, tidy. Daring to hope, Dani waited for the execution score.

9.4. 

Pol’s face said it all, but, cruel as it sounded, Dani couldn’t take time beyond a brief consolatory hug to comfort him; he still had his second run to go, as did Zarco.                                                

It was another 15.7. 

Dani did another quick bout of maths, and gulped as he made his way to the top of the run up. He needed a 9.5 execution himself for the gold. 

He’d done silver. He’d done bronze. He’d done a 9.5 before in this very Olympics.                                                                

Dani gritted his teeth. Break a leg, indeed. 

_I can do this_.         

Run. Jump. Push. Twist, and land. 

_Don’t step. Don’t you fucking step, Pedrosa._

The voice in his head sounded eerily like a certain Majorcan. 

But he didn’t step. 

Was it enough?         

In a daze, Dani let Alberto lead him off of the stage and back to the group. He checked the board; no score. 

Did it take this long last time?                       

Tom hugged him as he went past; Dani congratulated him on autopilot; Tom was guaranteed a medal whatever he scored. 

Zarco offered him a handshake; Dani took it with a polite, tense smile, but he figured the Frenchman understood why most of his attention was on the boards in the centre of the room.                                                                

Still no score. Had it been a minute yet? This was _agony_. 

Alberto gently shoved him into a seat. Pol crouched next to him, watching the boards as raptly as Dani himself was.

He heard the tannoy moments before the scoreboard changed.                        

It _changed_.                                                        

That meant-                                                                             

“ _Yes_!” Dani was up and leaping and he had _no idea_ what his arms were doing until one of them was caught and Pol, the sweetheart, pulled him into a joyous hug in earnest celebration and _Jesus Christ_ -                                                                

15.7. He’d done it. 6.2 difficulty with a 9.5 on execution. Enough to put him cleanly above Zarco and Tom, enough for _individual vault gold at the 2016 Rio Olympics_. 

As the cameras liked to do, there was a shot of the rest of the team going mad in the stands; Dani saw where they were sitting and ran across the rampart ‘til he was in front of them. Jorge was there too, up on his feet and yelling and clapping, and because he was a magnificent _bastard_ , the Majorcan pulled a Spanish flag out of _nowhere_ , gave it a kiss, and threw it down to Dani when he saw the gymnast standing below them.                                                

Was it too early to be falling in love? Maybe it was the winning high talking.                                                                            

Dani laughed helplessly as he stretched the flag out behind his back, peacocking for the team. Then he turned to the majority of the cameras in the arena and hopped up onto the platform, spinning round and round ‘til he was dizzy with it and the Brazilian volunteers directed him to the other podium finishers, proudly bedecked in their own country’s banner. 

As they were shuffled off to re-dress and leave space for the podium to be set up, he overheard Zarco saying to Tom in wonder, 

“Is this the best feeling in the world? Or is it just me?”                                                                

-*- 

The pre-podium period took the edge off of the euphoria as Dani pulled his tracksuit back on, to the extent that he _so nearly_ dedicated his medal to ‘the bastards who wrote me off the first time I broke my ankle.’                                                                

Nearly. Sue him; Dani did an awkward interview. What actually came out was:                                                 

“And I thank my fellow Spanish gymnasts, my team, my _friends_ , especially those here in the arena with me today. I couldn’t have come back to this form without you all backing me.”                                                      

There was a roar as his words were broadcast, but Dani didn’t see the team’s reaction as he was hustled out back, ready to walk back in to take his medal.  

His _gold medal._  

_Nothing_ would ever taint this feeling. 

-*-

Four hours later, and Dani had his first moments alone since-

-since he won his _second gold medal_ -                                                                                 

-and he couldn’t help himself. He placed the little trophies side by side on the bed, picked up his first medal of the games and hung the two of them around his neck together.                                                                               

He then turned and beamed at the mirror, taking it in.                                   

“This is real,” he murmured aloud. “This is me.” He thought about _everything_ his professional career had been to get to this point: travelling and living all over the world, the injuries, the breaks, the _other_ breaks, the pain of recovery and _agony_ of thinking he might not compete again…

“It’s _worth it_.”                                                                                 

-*-

After an evening of happiness so intense he felt he could _fly_ , Dani made his way back to his shared room. 

Jorge sat up, then stood up as he shut the door behind him.                           

“Hey,” Dani greeted breathlessly, still pumped up. He smiled at the gentle amusement the Majorcan couldn’t hide.                                                                

“You are completely buzzed right now, aren’t you?” Jorge asked with a grin.                                                                

“I am so high, I might be on the ceiling,” Dani confirmed. “ _Nothing_ will ever beat this feeling.”                                                                

“Well.” Jorge shifted to the other foot. “That sounds like a challenge.” 

“What-”                                                                                        

Jorge stepped up chest-to-chest with the gymnast and cut off any reply Dani might have made. 

With his _tongue_. 

Dani immediately relaxed into the embrace, Jorge’s hands on the back of his neck and his waist, pressing up and into the taller man as lips pressed and nipped and opened and tongues met, twisting and chasing.                                  

“-hmm…” Dani gasped out as Jorge pulled back, moments or minutes later. Looking uncharacteristically nervous when he opened his eyes, the Majorcan moved his hand through the hairs at the back of Dani’s skull, awaiting any kind of response. 

Dani gave him action rather than words; he leaned up to press a second, comparatively chaste kiss to the triathlete’s lips, before pulling back to whisper against them, “Okay then, challenge accepted.”                                                   

But considering Jorge still had his event to go, they separated soon after, not wanting to get into anything _too_ heavy.                                                                             

As they settled down to sleep, Dani turned on his bed to face the Majorcan. “This is probably the best day of my life to date,” he admitted quietly in the darkness. 

“Yeah?”                                                 

He could _hear_ Jorge’s smug grin.                                             

“Don’t let it go to your head, bastard. I just won my first individual Olympic gold medal.”

“Too late.”                                 

Dani smiled. “Night, Jorge.” 

“Night, sweetie.”                    

He was too tired to make a fuss; he’d argue the topic of _appropriate pet names_ in the morning. 

-*-

 

16/08/16- Tuesday.

With a sense of déja vu, a disgustingly happy Dani Pedrosa sat down next to his compatriot and last member of the team to perform their individual final, and blinked. “You look nervous.” 

Maverick’s glower was weak, but managed to effectively communicate the _no shit Sherlock_ that must have been running through his mind.             

“I think I was fine when I woke up,” the bar specialist said slowly. “Then…”                                                                

“Then?” Dani prompted, when the other gymnast trailed off. 

“Marc woke up.” 

_Shit_. “What did he do?” 

With a shudder, Maverick explained. “He _wouldn’t shut up_. ‘C’mon Maverick, we’ve taken four out of the five golds we’re going for so far Maverick, don’t let the side down Maverick, you can do it Maverick, go for it Maverick!’” He mocked the Cerveran in a falsetto. “I think I would have punched him if he’d said my name one more time.”                                                                

“Let me tell you a secret,” Dani gestured for Maverick to lean in closer, “Before his first individual finals at the Worlds three years ago, Marc pulled me aside and tried to persuade me that nobody would notice if I took his place.”                                                                

The younger man hiccoughed. “ _What_?”                                                                         

“True story,” Dani swore, hand on heart. “He was _that_ nervous; he very nearly didn’t make it to the starting line.”

“Did he win?” Maverick wondered, “I can’t remember…” 

“Fourth,” Dani recounted for him. “He fell off his first apparatus and never really recovered. And I’ll say the same thing to you that I did to him two days ago before his floor final: you have _nothing_ to prove out there.”                                           

“Seriously?” From the tone, Maverick doubted that.                                                                

But Dani nodded. “You have a gold and a bronze, Maverick. You’ve outdone every Spanish gymnast in history save those here with you today. And you know, you _must_ know, every one of us will be cheering you on like madmen.” 

But before the bar specialist could reply, a third gymnast joined the table. “Hi-”                                                               

Dani clapped a hand over Marc’s mouth. “No.”

The little shit _licked_ him. What was he, five? 

With a frown of disgust, Dani wiped the dampness on Marc’s trousers.                                              

“No what?” The world individual champion asked. 

“Everything,” Maverick said succinctly. “No. Bad dog. Down. Sit. Shut up.”                                            

“Hey!”                                           

“What’d he do this time?” Alex grinned as he sat beside his brother. “Besides existing, that is?”                                                                

“ _Hey_!”                                                           

“No Jorge today?” Pol asked with his own grin as he joined them. 

Dani eyed him, fighting down a blush. “Triathlon’s in two days. It’s solid block training and routine for him now. I actually think you’re more invested in my potential love life than I am.”                                                                

“Look at that blush; it’s not _potential_ any more, is it?” Pol’s expression turned salacious.                                         

“Olympics. Triathlon in two days.” Dani bit out. “What, exactly, do you think we got up to?”                                                                

Gamely, colour a little better for letting his teammates bicker over him, Maverick joined in. “But there _was_ something, right?”                                                

“Damn straight- well, bent- there was-” 

“Hush.” That time it was Maverick putting his hand over Marc’s mouth, muffling his roommate.                                        

Dani stared at them. “All of you,” he said, both stunned and unsurprised, “All of you are trying to live my love life vicariously through me.”       

“Nah,” Alex dismissed the thought, “Maverick’s got a girlfriend sending him letters dubious enough to hide under the mattress, remember? We’re just heckling for the hell of it.”                                                                

“Fine!” Marc burst out suddenly. “I’m sorry for being a dick this morning, okay?”

Maverick held out long enough for Dani to get worried, before forcibly relaxing his tensed muscles. “Okay,” he nodded simply.                              

“What I meant to say- what I really _wanted_ to say- was good luck,” Marc managed it, that time. 

“And Maverick?” Dani waited for him to meet his eyes as he grinned. “My last minute advice is this.” He paused for the drama. “Don’t break a leg.”       

Despite himself, Maverick snorted.

-*- 

“Bonus of being up last,” Alex mused as they waited for the final to begin, “Is that he knows exactly what he has to do to win.”                        

“Downside of being up last,” Marc countered immediately, “Is that he knows exactly what he has to do to win, and will be focussing on _that_ rather than getting through his routine clean.”                                                                

“Do you know if he intends to do the 7.8, or the 7.4?” Dani wondered.

“Has to be the 7.8, surely?”                                                     

“If it comes to a tie,” the team leader pointed out reasonably, “A higher execution score will win. He might well go for the cleaner run than the complicated one.”                             

“And if he goes for the complicated one,” Marc argued back, “There will be no tie, because he would have blown the rest of the competition out of the water.”

Dani blanked him for that and faced the younger brother instead. “Why is Marc being a bitch today?”                                                                

“I would wager,” Alex bit down on a smirk, “That he’s trying to stamp out the part of him that’s a _really_ bad loser, especially when he can’t affect the outcome."

“Wait.” Pol looked at the two brothers. “Was he this bad yesterday when we were up?”                                                                         

The team were becoming distressingly familiar with Alex’s catlike grin. “Worse, because his _hero_ was going for his _third Olympic medal,_ and ‘I really think he can do it this time, Alex! He’ll get the gold, I _know_ he will!’ He was swearing like nothing I’d heard when Luthi pulled off that Tsukohara, and then Zarco landed _his_ second run. It was an education in and of itself.”                                                                

“And _that_ ,” Dani said with finality, because the first gymnast was stepping up to the bar, “Is the downside of competing with your brother; there is nobody as willing to spill the dirt on you.”                                              

Wisely, Marc stayed quiet.                                                                

-*- 

Despite everything he’d said that morning, Marc was the one cheering the loudest when Maverick clinched silver on horizontal bar. 

-*- 

“We,” Marc decided, “Are going clubbing tonight. We are celebrating, we are _partying,_ and we are getting roaring drunk.”                                                       

“We,” Dani rebutted, “Are doing no such thing. I will not be party to this.” He paused, then grinned. “Pun unintentional but hoping to wound.” 

“Wuss,” Marc sniped. 

“Married,” Pol countered with a grin. 

With a sigh, Dani acknowledged that the younger vaultist was half right. “I am not coming back at oh-dark thirty drunk like a teenager on moonshine and loud enough to wake the dead. It’s not fair on Jorge.” 

With perfect timing, the triathlete in question strolled up to join them at the dinner table. 

“Good show for your last final,” he greeted cheerfully enough, before registering how the younger men were staring at him. “What?” 

Pol shook his head. “I bow down to your skills. Your gymnast is completely and utterly whipped.”                                                                

Jorge managed to put two and two together, and raised them by twenty. “Nah, we didn’t get that far last night.”                                                                

As jaws left, right and centre fell open, Dani banged his head on the table in despair. 

-*-

 

17/08/16- Wednesday.

A quiet word to the contingent chefs the next morning, and Dani left the hitherto untraveled kitchens with a saucepan, lid and gleeful smirk. Next to him, Jorge was similarly armed.                                                                

“Are you sure you’ve got the door numbers right?” Jorge triple checked as they crept back upstairs.                                                                

“Positive,” Dani answered for the third time. “They’re right next to each other.”

“Good, ‘cause we’re already gonna be in the shit from the rest of their corridor.” Jorge didn’t sound like he thought this was a setback. 

“I already checked,” Dani admitted, slightly embarrassed. “Nobody on this corridor has any events left to compete in.”

“You really are a sweetheart, aren’t you?” 

But it was with a wide grin, so Dani didn’t take it as further ammunition in the _pet names_ discussion he kept forgetting to bring up. 

“Here we go,” Dani whispered, as they came to the appropriate doors.

“Can I take Marc’s?” Jorge begged. “ _Please_ let me take Marc’s?”                                                                                     

“Be my guest,” Dani offered generously.

He got a quick kiss for it, so _totally worth it_.

They lined up, and Dani silently counted down with his fingers. 

_Three, two, one-_

With glee, they threw open the bedroom doors and started banging the crockery.                                                      

There was a yelp and a strangled scream from next door, and Dani didn’t put it past Jorge to have jumped onto Marc’s bed, but funnier still was Alex’s squeal as he rolled sideways with most of the bedclothes still attached, and Pol-                                                  

Pol took the cake, because he sat up, gazed blearily at the short figure in his doorway, and mumbled, “It’s all in my head. The pounding is all in my head.” 

“’Fraid not,” Dani made an extra _clang_ for emphasis. The younger men both winced. “Did you make it back before dawn?” 

“I plead the fifth on the grounds that I can’t remember,” Alex said stiffly, having excavated himself from the mass of pillows surrounding him.

“Stop acting proud. You lost your dignity when you tried to get that girl’s number, before realising _she_ was a _he_.”

Dani creased up. “Tell me there are pictures?”                                                               

“I see your pictures,” Pol laughed with him, “And give you a three minute video.”

“I hate you all,” Alex said woefully.

There was another _clang_ and a scream from next door. 

“Not as much as Marc does, I bet,” Pol grinned through the pain.

-*-

 

18/08/16- Thursday. 

Dani actually travelled down to the beach front with Jorge and some of the other triathletes, beating most of the spectator crowd.         

“So,” he started. “We’re definitely not keeping us a secret, right?”                                                                

Ever the bastard, Jorge looked completely relaxed for his event, his one shot at defending his first Olympic title won four years ago. Which was good. If he’d been nervous, Dani wouldn’t have dared what he was about to do.                                                                                

“Thought we’d covered that already?” Jorge frowned at him, sounding puzzled. “Why-”

Dani smirked, grabbed Jorge by the shoulder and dragged him down to kiss him. “For luck,” he said breezily after releasing the triathlete. “Besides, I shouldn’t be the only one who’s fellow Olympians take the piss constantly.”                                                 

Jorge blinked, before getting it. “Hello karma, vindictive as ever I see.”                                                   

“Just so.” Dani glanced over as the triathletes seemed to get the _hurry up_ from the volunteers organising the event. “Good luck, babe.”  

He tried it out, but nah. Pet names: still didn’t like them.                                                                            

“Thanks, sweetie,” Jorge said quickly, already turning to line up. “See you at the finish!” 

“And you better be in first place, bastard!”                                                                

Huh. That was an idea. Maybe he’d found a one he could live with. 

-*-

The thing was, Dani had been TiVo-stalking Jorge on the ITU circuit for roughly a year. He _knew_ swimming was the Majorcan’s weakest of the three, that he had a good shot if he stayed within fifteen seconds of the leaders, and an outside chance if he clung on to within thirty. 

So he was thrilled and worried when Jorge came out of the water in sixth, seven seconds back. Because _yeah_ , great start, but how much would it cost him by the end? 

He watched as Jorge transitioned to bike- economically, was the best description. Not a movement nor a second wasted, just enough time and effort expended to make sure cap and goggles went in the box like they were meant to and he didn’t pick up an easily avoided penalty.

He managed to jump another athlete coming out of the transition, and settled in with the leading group to start their laps.   

_That climb_. Dani had done it six times, and he was crying out for mercy by the end. And Jorge had to do _eight_ of them. 

Lap one. Nine athletes in the group, including, Dani reluctantly noticed, the Italian Jorge had taken gold from in London.          

Valentino Rossi had been the defending champion from Beijing, and world number one for any number of years. It was a title he and Jorge swapped with alarming frequency, simply depending on who was on form at the time.                                                                         

Jorge had won the last three triathlons coming into the Olympics. He had this, surely.                                                                

Lap two. Jorge was leading the climb, was it wise for him to be expending so much energy, so soon?                                                                                    

Lap three. Jesus, had Jorge been putting up with this for both of Dani’s finals? Surely not. This felt _awful_.                                                

Lap four. Two athletes dropped off the back of the lead group, but Jorge was leading the climb _again_. Weren’t they meant to take turns? 

Lap five. Dani snorted. That was the most perfect camera shot he’d ever seen, of Jorge and Rossi riding side by side and by the looks of it, in the middle of a furious argument. He relaxed slightly; if Jorge had enough breath in him for a blazing row, he couldn’t be feeling too bad.          

And he thinks the English commentary being blared out over the tannoy just apologised to 'any Spanish lip-readers out there'. 

He checked the camera. Whatever Jorge had said, it must have worked, because the Italian was leading the way that time.                                                        

One more rider fell out of the back, but another had made the break from the chasing group to join the leaders. Eyes narrowed, Dani made out the name on the Spanish kit. _Cardus_. Jorge’s friend/protégé, Dani realised.                                                               

Good for him.

Lap six, and Cardus was taking the front, leading the group, but more importantly, _Jorge_ , up the climb, and Dani wondered if that hadn’t been the plan from the start.                                                                             

Lap seven, rinse and repeat. Spain were one and two, but he knew Cardus wouldn’t live with Jorge or Rossi in the run, and not just because he was putting the work in now.                                                                                        

Lap eight. Last one round. There was some jostling, and Dani’s nerves took a short holiday on planet _haywire_ because it was Rossi and Jorge with their elbows out-

But Jorge seemed to be waiting for it, because he _just_ eased away on the downhill, taking the corners closer than he had on any lap previous.

His nerves apparently liked the resort at planet haywire, because they were visiting again.                                                                

Transition. Dani cursed; it looked like Jorge had a sticky helmet buckle. Rossi was heading out of the zone in first, with Jorge leaving six seconds behind him.

But still no locked shoulders, set jaws or gritted teeth. Jorge was loping along in his inimitable style, running up to Rossi’s shoulder and then staying there, mimicking the Italian’s tactics on the bike ride.                                                                                   

They had four laps of this; God help him.                                                                          

They ran away from the rest of the field, leaving it a race for bronze in their wake. It looked like it might come down to a sprint finish, until, with a lap and a half to go, Jorge _kicked_.

Two metres. Three. Five. _Ten_.                    

He couldn’t believe the Italian was letting Jorge go; _Jorge was winning this_.

The official time when Jorge took the bell gave him a nineteen second gap.                                                                               

_Come on_.                                                                                     

Dani had thought he’d left this sort of angst behind with his own competition completed.                                                                

Half a lap to go. Was Rossi edging back? Was he clawing away at Jorge’s lead? 

_Come on, you bastard. Come on!_

Home straight, and Jorge was in sight, not just on the cameras. But so was Rossi; Dani could see the Italian breaking into an all-out sprint, trying to pip Jorge on the line.

The Majorcan glanced over his shoulder without breaking stride, aware of the danger, and _now_ Dani saw the gritted teeth, the very real _pain_ in every step as Jorge tried to kick on himself, staying ahead even if the distance closed.                                                                

Dani didn’t care how big a margin the bastard won by, so long as he _won_.                                                                

Okay, Dani would be _gutted_ , but he wouldn’t disown Jorge for coming in second.

But- he was on the line-                 

-and Rossi was still five paces behind. 

He was up and leaping around as Jorge collapsed behind the line, completely exhausted, the Italian joining him thereafter. 

It hit him then as the tannoy announced it; Jorge was the first male triathlete to win two gold medals in consecutive games. He’d not only won it, he’d _made history._

There was another mad sprint for the line in progress; the Lowes brothers of Great Britain were fighting it out for the last medal. Alex beat Sam for it by single step, both brothers following the suit of gold and silver and collapsing together at the side of the run in.                                                                                

In slightly different fashion, they collapsed arm in arm rather than at arms’ length.

But most eyes were on Jorge Lorenzo, twice Olympic champion, as he finally rose to his feet again, pumping his fist at the roaring crowd. 

Dani was no different to the rest of the masses.

-*- 

As agreed before the event, Dani met his re-crowned Olympic champion back at the Spanish barracks, having left just after the ceremony himself.       

He was laughing about- something, he couldn’t remember what- with his team and a wider crowd, Spanish men and women from cycling, tennis and a couple of field athletes, all joking together and occasionally tuning into the highlights broadcast on the big screen at the front of the room, when Jorge walked in.

Staggered in, actually.                               

As the room cheered their compatriot, Dani got up with a wide grin and made his way over.                                                                       

“Great plan,” Jorge said as greeting. “You’re about the right height for a crutch.”                                             

“You magnificent bastard,” he replied. “You are shattered, and completely buzzed right now, aren’t you?”                                                               

With a wink, Jorge got it. “Nothing,” he enunciated every word, “Will ever beat this feeling.”                                                    

“That,” Dani got right up in Jorge’s personal space, “Sounds like a challenge.”                                                                              

Enough people in the room had cottoned on (or been clued in by his little shits) that the cheering only heightened when Jorge pulled him close (leant on him for support, more like. That was definitely leaning, there) and kissed him hot, hard-                                                                

-and between the two of them, each gold medallists twice over-                                                       

-so, _so_ happy.                         

-*-

 

19/08/16- Friday. 

“Hey, so what’s the- _oh my fucking God I’ll come back later_.”                             

From the same bed, Dani and Jorge raised their heads to blearily peer at the slamming door. 

“Which one?” Jorge asked, sleep-slow. 

“Don’t care.” Dani snuggled back into Jorge’s shoulder, the Majorcan tightening his arm around the smaller gymnast again.

“Idiot. Didn’t even notice we’ve got pyjamas on.” 

-*- 

Later that morning, Dani was approached by Marc, whose face was approaching Spanish flag levels of _red_. 

“I am so, _so_ sorry,” he said in a rush, pre-empting anything Dani might have said. “I didn’t even think- I didn’t know, well, okay, how could I know? But I didn’t expect- you said you were waiting-” 

Hell, Dani’d be lucky to get a word in edgeways at this rate.                                                                               

It had worked before, so Dani reached out and put his hand over Marc’s mouth. That time, at least, he didn’t get licked.                               

“You weren’t interrupting anything except our beauty sleep,” Dani let out a chuckle at the stricken look on the younger gymnast’s face. “Christ, Marc, if you’d stayed-” Marc’s eyes grew panicked, and Dani fumbled the rest of the sentence, “Not like that! All I meant was, we both had our pyjamas on. You’d have noticed. Seriously, we were only sleeping.” Cautiously, he removed his hand.                                                        

“I’ll tell the others to actually start knocking before we burst in, rather than just joking about it! See you later, Dani!”

And he was off like a shot, quickly disappearing around the corner.                                                                

-*- 

Dani managed to corner the rest of the team at lunch, Jorge in tow. Four young faces immediately took on a rosy hue, and Jorge sat down in a huff.

“For fuck’s sake,” he bit out, “I won a triathlon yesterday. I’m _still_ recovering. I would not have been able to do half of the things I want to do to Dani last night with the state I was in. Understand?”                                              

There were now five rosy faces at the table, Dani’s joining his team mates’. “You say that sort of thing just to get a rise out of me,” he accused.  

Jorge’s expression was blatantly, ‘so?’ “You find it sort of cute.” 

“Bastard.” 

“Sweetie.”                 

"Lunch!” Alex announced suddenly. “Let’s get back to it, yes?”                                                                

“By the way, Marc,” Dani asked, halfway through the meal, “What were you going to say this morning?”                                                                      

Marc swallowed his mouthful warily, “I was going to ask if you guys had plans for tonight.”                                                               

Pol broke the pregnant silence by snickering.                                              

“Make it tomorrow,” Dani said, ignoring everything else implied. “Last night blowout.”                                                                   

“Do I get a say?” Jorge elbowed him in the ribs.                                     

“Do you disagree?” Dani nudged him back. 

“Did you get married when we weren’t looking?” Maverick muttered in an undertone. 

-*-

 

20/08/16- Saturday. 

“Bitch, bitch, bitch. Bicker, bicker, bicker. It’s not _that_ big of a deal.”                                              

That… did not bode well. Dani entered the room on high alert. Call him biased, but seeing Jorge sat on the outside of the ring looking like all he needed for happiness was a bag of popcorn went a long way to soothing his heart rate back to something normal.                                             

"What’s going on?” Dani asked him quietly.                                                       

Jorge cased him up and down, making his opinion known with a coy _smirk_. “Alex reckons Marc stole his shirt. Marc categorically denies it.”  

Pause. Rewind. Repeat. “No, the truth this time. What’s going on?” 

“I swear on my title,” Jorge promised. “I could not make something like this up.”                                                          

“You vastly underestimate yourself,” was Dani’s opinion of _that_. Then he strode up to the brothers and broke in with a calm, clear question. “Alex. Is Marc wearing your shirt?” 

Mulishly, Alex bit his lip. “No.” 

Marc’s crow was hastily silenced when Dani levelled a _look_ at him. “Marc. Did you take Alex’s shirt to try on?”

“No!” Marc insisted, for the _umpteenth_ time. 

“Then _where is it_? I wanted to wear that, Marc!” 

“It wasn’t me!”                                                                          

“Yo, guys. We ready?” Pol made it last of the bunch, strolling into the proverbial warzone.                                                                           

“Well, gee, Alex. Did you think to ask the guy you _share a room with_ if he went in your suitcase?”                                                                

“Oh, the shirt?” Pol glanced down casually. “It was in the wardrobe.”                                                                         

Marc stared at his brother like the younger was a stranger to him. “You _unpacked_?” 

Jorge got to his feet and stretched out. Dani felt justifiably distracted from the argument in front of him. 

Jesus, those jeans did Jorge more favours than a wedding table. 

“Everybody dressed, made up and accounted for?” The Majorcan checked. Without waiting for replies, he continued, “Great. Let’s go.”   

Dani felt like a cliché; he hated to see the man go, but _goddamn_ in those jeans, he loved to watch him leave.                                                              

-*- 

Some hours later, and Dani jumped as he felt hands that didn’t belong to him in the pockets of his _own_ jeans. 

“You are drunk, sweetie.”

Dani leant back into the hold. Only one man in the world called him _that_. He didn’t try to deny the accusation, because the moment he did that, he lost the game. 

“I’m having fun,” he said lightly. 

The hands withdrew from his pockets to make room for arms to snake around his waist. “And I’m getting the feeling you’re a tad possessive,” Dani added, equally light.                                              

“Whatever gave you that idea?” Murmured centimetres from his earlobe.                                                                          

Dani started listing off. “You were horrifically jealous of my team whenever I spent time with them. You tried to monopolise my training sessions whenever you didn’t have your own going on. And you can’t seem to stop hugging me whenever you can, asleep, awake, publicly or in private.”

The arms loosened slightly, so Dani pulled them back. “I didn’t say it bothered me,” he pointed out. 

“You’re sure?” Came from behind him, and it sounded like Jorge had stood up for it, so Dani twisted and craned until he could look at the man. Perks of being a gymnast; he hadn’t had to move Jorge’s arms an inch.                                                           

“Because you’re right,” Jorge admitted, under the flashing lights of the club, only audible since they were sequestered in the corner away from the dance floor. “I _am_ possessive. I _will_ monopolise your life, and pout when you tell me there’s something you have to do without me. I can live with-” the Majorcan paused, and reconsidered. “Actually, I think I _like_ your friends now, and it’s a non-issue anyway; of course I trust you. I will wake you up obscenely early, be it for morning sex or training. I will bitch over the amount of coffee you drink, I will bitch when you want to watch late night horror films or have Halo tournaments with the little shits, and I will bitch when you spend more than a week away at a competition, and so help me God, Pedrosa, if you don’t miss me when I’m away competing as much as I’m going to miss you…” he tailed off, coming back to himself, finally noticing the amused fondness that took up residence on Dani’s face the moment he started speaking. 

“Jorge.” Dani kept it brief in response. “I let you call me _sweetie_.”                                                                                       

“You call me _bastard_ ,” the Majorcan countered, going for the moral high ground. Dani felt the two were fairly comparable, himself.

They smiled at each other, just enjoying the moment. Dani took another gulp of his beer before offering the bottle over. Jorge polished it off, casting the bottle aside and putting hands on hips and lower, walking Dani backwards, towards- 

“Oh _hell_ no.” Dani planted his feet and resisted further movement towards the dancefloor.                                                                      

“Dance with me?” Jorge asked belatedly. 

"I need to be drunker to be convinced into _that_ ,” Dani insisted. 

“That,” Jorge had a dangerous glint in his eye, “Can be arranged.” 

-*-

If nothing else (though he was _many_ things else), Jorge was efficient. He rounded up the rest of the drunken little shits and organised a shots relay: everybody buys a round in turn: drink one and pass the tray over. Drop or otherwise fail to finish your drink and take two penalty shots.                                              

Drop the tray and take a penalty _round_.                                                                                                   

Luckily, five gymnasts and a triathlete made up a fairly co-ordinated group of people, even in such conditions.                                                                  

Unluckily, Dani was _drunk_.             

And dancing.                                              

And he thinks Pol just took a picture. 

Wait, shit, Pol took _videos_. 

He hid his face in Jorge’s neck. Then he nuzzled.                                              

Jorge’s hands went low again, _squeezing_.                                              

“I also think,” Dani managed to say, but he thought he’d started to slur, “That you have a fascination with my arse.”                                              

“Sweetie,” Jorge had an alcohol flush high on his cheeks, and his shirt was unbuttoned. Wait, Dani vaguely remembered unbuttoning it himself two songs ago. “I have a fascination with your _everything_.”                                              

Jorge really was a smooth talker.                                                              

Alternatively, he had a talented tongue. 

Dani wanted to slap himself for that one; fucking shots. 

“What are the odds,” he wondered aloud, “That the little shits collectively have three digits worth of photos of us, and at least an hour’s worth of video?"

“No bet.” Jorge bit at Dani’s earlobe, perhaps trying to bring his attention back to dancing and his partner.                                                                              

“Hope they have _one_ nice one, at least.”                                              

“You’re a sentimental drunk, aren’t you?” Jorge gave up on distractions and started swaying gently, at odds with the samba beat ricocheting around the Rio club.                                                          

“Your fault,” Dani mumbled.                                                           

“Yup,” Jorge agreed cheerfully, “All mine.” 

“Yup,” Dani mimicked. “I am.” 

“Yup- wait, _what_?” 

Dani blinked, but it didn’t rewind time for him. “I think I should get some water,” he said slowly.                                                                       

“I think,” Jorge looked at him in wonder, “Your wish is my command.” 

“Sap.”                           

“Pot.” 

“What?” 

“Pot, kettle, etc.” 

“ _Oh_.”                                   

Water acquired, they stole a table on the outskirts of the main crush.                                     

It seemed like the appropriate time for twenty truths after the heart to heart earlier, so Dani fired the opening salvo. “I’ve had a crush on you for four years, give or take.”                                              

Jorge snorted, and gave his own truth in return. “I thought you were cute when we met face-to-face in London. Infuriating as hell, but cute.” 

"I'm sorry for what I said back then," Dani offered.

“No, you’re not,” Jorge saw the truth of the matter. 

Dani chuckled, slightly mirthless. “No, I’m not.”                                 

“You accused my coach of doping me.”                                              

“He had a proven history.” 

“I’ve _always_ tested clean.”                                     

“The accusation was never actually against _you_.”                        

“That’s the only reason I didn’t thump you,” Jorge admitted with a wry smile. “That, and your pretty face, of course.” 

“Keep it up, I’ll thump you tonight yet.” 

“ _Sweetie_.” Jorge gasped theatrically. “That’s abuse!”                                              

Dani rolled his eyes. “Not a jury in the land, etc., etc.”                           

"I only like watching the gymnastics when _you’re_ performing. Not the team, _you_.”                             

“I have three months’ worth of triathlons on my TiVo box. Guess what they have in common.” 

“My stunning smile?” Jorge demonstrated said smile for comparison, including a slight dimple on one side. 

“Idiot.” Dani took a deep breath, and spoke honestly, unadorned. “I’m falling in love with you.”                                              

“Dani,” Jorge’s voice was equal parts happiness, seriousness and awe. “I’m perfectly okay with that.” 

And Dani understood- because it was early days, yet. Just because he’d been quasi-stalking the man for eighteen months didn’t mean he’d immediately return Dani’s regard.

“Okay,” he affirmed, finishing off the water.                                                               

-*-

 

21/08/16- Sunday.                   

“Oh. My. _God_ , but my head hurts.”                                              

Dani stirred, took in his body’s report, and concurred. “Your fault,” mumbled through a mouth that tasted of stale beer and felt like dried cotton.          

He took more serious stock of who, what, and where, and came up with more bodies than he was comfortable finding.                                                               

With a twist that was normally effortless but today ranked only shades below utter _agony_ , Dani sat up. Jorge was rubbing sleep from his eyes, but the rest of the team were still out cold.                                                               

They’d made a nest. On the floor. Dani was getting too old for this shit. 

“Hmf.”               

Disturbed by the movements, Alex came to next. He took in the surroundings, and asked quietly, (more in deference to his headache than the sanctity of the moment) “Did we… actually have an orgy last night?”                                                                        

“Pants check,” Jorge ordered quickly.                                                                

Never mind pants, Dani was still in his jeans. He didn’t have to look to feel the seams digging in. “I think we’re safe,” he announced, much to the two’s relief. 

“Hot _damn_ ,” Was Pol’s return to consciousness. “I wake up with five other people, and I _didn’t even get laid out of it_?!” 

“Volume!” Alex pleaded. Unperturbed, Pol steamrolled on.                                                          

“Seriously. I had a great night, got drunk, got grinding- and don’t try to convince me you don’t remember that, Alex- and I _gets no sex_?”  

Maverick woke up then, and wished he’d not moaned so he could still play unconscious.                                                                       

“She’s going to kill me,” he muttered, being the first one brave enough to attempt climbing to his feet. “Or she’d ask why she wasn’t invited,” he mused, thinking it through. “Yeah, the latter.” 

With only one stumble, the bars specialist made it to the door. “I’m finding a bed to sleep the rest of this off. See you later.”

Dani gave him a half-hearted wave. By the feel of it, Jorge was already asleep again. 

“Dani.” Alex’s tone made him at least _try_ to take the follow up seriously. “Where’s Marc?”                                                                          

With a great sense of foreboding, Dani did a second bodies check, and came up one short. “Shit,” he summarised.

“Give him ‘til lunch,” was Pol’s opinion. “Probably just needs time to complete his walk of shame.”                                                                             

Hungover as he was, that sounded entirely reasonable. “’Til lunch,” he agreed. “Sleep, then panic.” He tried to sound authoritative, to keep Alex calm. 

He thought it worked, but fell unconscious again before double checking.

-*- 

At roughly eleven o’clock, they dragged their sorry carcasses down to the canteen for a late breakfast. Or an early lunch, depending on how one viewed it.  

In their case it was wincing, through dark sunglasses.                                                        

Dani downed his first cup of coffee without moving away from the machine, going for a quick refill. At Jorge’s _look_ , Dani shrugged. “Bitch away,” he said, confirming that he, at least, remembered most of what they’d spoken last night.                                                         

“Oh, I will,” Jorge assured him. Then he shuddered as across the room, somebody clattered their tray. “Later. Much later.”                                              

Three coffees combined with the shower he’d taken before coming down, and Dani felt vaguely human again. Enough to rank _neanderthal_ , at least. 

Enough to stop eating, stare, and give a one man standing ovation when the Marquez the elder scurried into the canteen like he was trying to be inconspicuous.

Like there was any chance of _that_. Marc was wearing last night’s clothes still, and had traces of lipstick trailing over his jawbone and down his neck.     

"Good night?" he ventured, when the younger gymnast sat down with his healthy brunch of caffeine, dairy and glucose. 

Marc took his coffee milky, with three sugars apparently.                                                                              

"I _love_ Rio," the best gymnast in the world declared, with a smile bright enough to suggest he had no regrets, and more dastardly, no hangover.  

“Life is not fair,” Jorge concluded with a sour pout. 

But Dani looked around the table and saw- 

One team gold, and four individual.                                              

A silver and a bronze. 

He saw the aftermath of a great night.

He saw friends made, occasionally forcibly. 

He saw potential for _more_ with one in particular.                                              

And it was _amazing_. 

“Life is _fantastic_.” 

-*- 

“Do you think I can keep the shades for the Closing Ceremony?” 

Dani snickered. “Good luck. Nobody’d believe it was anything but you being woefully hungover.” 

Jorge pouted. “Honesty _is_ a virtue.” 

“Not in this case, it won’t be.” Dani picked up his two gold medals with _reverence_ , and placed them around his neck. “You are the world’s foremost, history making triathlete. You are not the sort of role-model that goes out partying and walks up hungover as fuck in a platonic orgy pile.” 

As suited him, Jorge picked and chose the words he listened to. “Do you realise,” he said with a grin, “That _you_ are Spain’s second most successful gymnast of all time?”                                                                     

Dani stalled. “Wait- but Maverick-” 

“Has a silver, a bronze, and a team gold,” Jorge counted on his fingers. “You, sweetie, have one more of the shiniest things hanging around your neck. And that’s what everybody counts by.” 

“Oh.” How had Dani _not_ worked this out? “Wow.” He laughed, a little self-deprecating. 

“What do you think?” Jorge posed like Marylin Monroe. “Are we Spain’s golden couple?” 

For the second time in a week, Dani had the image of Jorge in a white dress dancing through his mind. 

That might be a latent kink. 

_That_ needed to be explored at a later date.                                  

“I couldn’t care less if you don’t medal for the rest of your life,” Dani grabbed Jorge’s gold out of the triathlete’s hands, and placed it around his neck himself. “Or if you do, what colour it is.”                                              

“I don’t look nearly so good in silver,” Jorge admitted, light except for the dark vein of truth running throughout. “I get huffy, and moody, and I tend to take it out on my nearest and dearest.” 

Dani waved it off, reassuring Jorge with a light kiss. “We’ll deal with it if it happens. And besides, you haven’t seen me with a broken ankle yet. I’m due one in a year or so’s time.” 

“Not funny.” But the bastard was biting down a smile. “Fine, I’ll leave the sunglasses here. Ready for this?”

Dani took his proffered hand willingly, happily. “Let’s go.” 

-*- 

On the grand stage that was the Rio Games Closing Ceremony, it barely ranked as a thing worthy of notice. 

Back in Spain, the press went _wild_.                           

On the front page of nearly every national newspaper was one particular picture, each with some version of ‘Lorenzo and Pedrosa: Love is Gold!’ as the headline. 

It was one of those photos where the subjects weren’t even aware their picture was being taken. They were more focussed on each other; a viewer would assume the triathlete had just made a joke into the gymnast’s ear, because Spain’s team leader and vault specialist was smiling widely.                              

Innocent enough. 

But what sent every tabloid and broadsheet across their country insensate with _joy_ over such a juicy scoop was the clasped hands between them as they watched the fireworks. 

-*-

 (coda)

 “Did you _seriously_ keep that picture?”

 “I’m framing it, bastard. Like you said, you look good in gold.”

**Author's Note:**

> As a last piece, if anybody thinks I showered the boys in far too many medals- a) yes, I would if I could and b) did anybody else see what the women's team USA did? Simone Biles is *epic* (and totally who I've based 'my' Marc on).
> 
> Goodbye Rio. You have risen above the controversy and delivered an amazing modern Games. Thank you.


End file.
